The Spirit of Christmas
by Cuban Sombrero Gal
Summary: It is Christmas in the heart that puts Christmas in the air. A series of Christmas oneshots, covering many different characters and pairings, to inspire festive spirit. ::Complete::
1. Release

**Author's Note: **Welcome to my collection of Christmas oneshots. These have been written both as presents of some of my lovely friends -waves wildly- and for a challenge set by TheOriginalHufflepuff to write twelve different Christmas fics. They will span all different times, characters and genres, but, knowing me, at least half of them will be angst-ridden, full of unrequited love or something else depressing. Please enjoy, and if you adore my work, or have some sort of _constructive _criticism, please feel free to leave a review.

**Chapter 1**

**-Release-**

**HarryxGinny**

_Merry Christmas to xRosePetalx_**  
**

The smell of steaming roast turkey and plum pudding filtered through the house, burning Harry's nostrils with the richness of it all; the Christmas tree was lavishly decorated with ornaments that shimmered under the harsh living room lights as though they were dancing, and yet Harry took in none of it. All eyes were focussed upon George, who looked as much a ghost now, six months on; as he had that very exact moment he had discovered Fred sleeping peacefully under the stars in the Great Hall. For someone who had spent the majority of his school days as the centre of attention, Harry though he seemed pretty unnerved by it all now.

Everyone else looked as numb as George; Ginny was curled up, cat like, in an arm chair, not even a trace of her usual grin on her face, and Ron and Hermione lay beside her, both too captivated by George's eerie, miserable presence to demonstrate closeness. Harry doubted they had even discussed what had happened in the Room of Requirement, the aftermath of that last night at Hogwarts had thoroughly eclipsed everything they once held dear. Silence hung thickly in the air like a cloud; it seemed to be suffocating everyone in the vicinity, and Harry wondered how they could stand feeling so dead.

Harry had experienced many dismal Christmases, for sure the Dursleys' had never been big on fostering the holiday spirit, and most of his Christmases at Hogwarts had been marred by war and fighting and delving further into wicked mysteries., but this had to be the most depressing yet.

"Who wants to open presents?" Harry asked, as though his voice alone could puncture the invisible weight that hung above his head. No-one answered, but all heads swivelled towards him. He could see fragile tears clinging to Hermione face like raindrops to a leaf, it shocked him, because he thought that the floodgates would have shut and the river dried up by now. In six months, this family had not moved on one little bit, and as much as Harry pitied their loss, he felt as though he should shove them in the right direction. Sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind, not smother the dreadful things with false happiness, the way Molly had with her Christmas decorations and cooking.

"Maybe Harry's right," Ginny said finally, "maybe we should open presents." It was the first time she had spoken all day, and she seemed self-conscious and delicate, as though words alone could snap her small body in half. Hermione nodded eagerly, although Harry could still see traces of doubt streaked across her face. Ron inclined his head slightly as well, although he was a little more hesitant. Bill, Charlie, Fleur and George didn't even acknowledge them, but just continued to drown in their own sorrows.

"Come on," Harry said, his voice had a hint of eagerness in it, he was just so glad to be getting off the couch and doing something, even that was as mundane and simple as handing out Christmas presents. Ginny scurried after him as he began his walk across the room, to where oodles of presents sat neatly under the Christmas tree. It was now midday, and they were untouched except by human eyes. Digging rapidly through the presents, Harry began to chuck them into haphazard piles by name.

"Harry."

He looked up at the sound of his name, it seemed odd to have it embodied in such deep quiet. He could feel eyes boring into his back, Bill and Fleur had shifted slightly, they now lay in an intangible fray, curled up together on the carpet. George was still as dull as ever, and Harry really didn't want to ponder exactly how deep his emotions ran, but at least he was looking away from the window now. Ginny was leaning over him, cocking her finger in a way that Harry could only describe as sexy.

"Come upstairs for a minute, I need to give you your present in peace."

Harry nodded, although his tongue seemed to be lodged in the roof of his mouth; he vaguely wondered exactly what sort of present Ginny could give him away from his family. He hurried up the stairs after her, ignoring Ron's wink and the chastising look Hermione gave him as he began to neaten the presents that Harry had so chaotically stacked. Harry grinned slightly despite his utter confusion at Ginny's behaviour; maybe those two would sort themselves out after all.

"Coming Harry?" Ginny called from the topmost stair, looking nervously down at him. For someone who had just spent what felt like an eternity staring at her brother, she sure appeared full of energy and spirit now.

"Look Harry," she said, pushing him into her room, where he was greeted by an affectionate wave from one of the Weird Sisters, "I feel weird about this, but are we … are we ever going to discuss us? Or are you just going to be a typical boy and bottle everything up and forget what we had?"

Harry sighed; this was really the last thing he felt like doing on Christmas Day, which was supposed to be a day of celebration and joy, of singing Christmas carols and pulling crackers.

Instead he just mumbled, "It's your brother who's clueless around girls. Look at him and Hermione."

"You never learn do you?"

"What?" Harry was genuinely surprised by the question, and he gave Ginny a confused stare.

"Look, you don't think about how hard it's been for me, do you?" Harry thought she was being irrational, but thinking of her bat bogey hex, he doubted now was a good time to voice such ideas. "You went off with Ron and Hermione and then came back and ignored and I've had to go back to school all by myself, and you've been ignoring me, it's like you never wanted me in the first place and going off to kill him was the easiest way to ditch me."

Harry sighed, his brain whirring as quickly as possible to think of something that might make Ginny a little more reasonable.

"Look Ginny," he started, bracing himself for the fireworks that were likely to occur, for the harsh explosions and loss of control, "do you really think I wanted all that?"

Her mouth fell open like a goldfish, not in shock but in preparation for retaliation, and he quickly cut her off. "It's been hard on all of us, I had to do that for everyone, and do you really think I wanted to?"  
"You got to be the hero, you're the one who killed him, and yet what I did was just as important, Neville and Luna and I were left to fight against the Carrows and we did." Ginny was becoming hysterical, her voice was rising in pitch so much that it almost reminded Harry of the Fat Lady's singing, which was disturbing at its best.

"I'm sorry, ok. We both did what we thought was right."

Harry had never held much stock in apologies; to him they were frivolous and useless, it didn't matter how much you said you regretted something, while man could change the past, it didn't automatically mean that you should. Saying sorry never righted wrongs, it smothered them and hid them from the world, left them to be forgotten. And all this particular apology had done was create an air that mirrored the one they had left downstairs. Ginny's face was a mask; Harry could not seem to contemplate her emotions at all, and resorted to asking questions as a way of breaking the tension that surrounded them like a bubble, trapping them in.

"So, that Christmas present?"  
"Oh, yeah." Ginny suddenly blushed bright red, Harry was vividly reminded of the way her brother acted around Hermione. "That. Don't worry, it's stupid, you're going to laugh."

"Why?"

"Oh … oh sod it."

And with that she was stepping forward and the world was spinning and her lips were colliding with a shocked Harry's and it was rough and yet perfect and he could taste her and her scent was ensnaring. Just as Harry's brain was actually beginning to process what was happening, she pulled suddenly away.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking Harry's flushed face to be sign of something other than elation. "I shouldn't have done it, but I … I remembered your birthday present from last year."

Harry couldn't help it; he let out a slight laugh, one which was much harsher than necessary, as though his throat was staging a slight rebellion for its neglect during recent months. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd giggled at all, and it was the most liberating feeling. Ginny began to laugh with him, not because anything was particularly funny, but because the tension and despair had suddenly been released, it was like letting go of a spring that had been wound up in their hearts.

"So," said Harry, once the laughter had stopped, "Would you like your Christmas present from me."

Ginny nodded, unable to stop a few stray giggles from escaping. "Of course."

"Well, you'll have to come downstairs."

He offered his hand to her, after all they'd gone through together, and in light of all he hoped they would go through, it only seemed right.

"You might want to tiptoe downstairs quietly though, the last thing we want is for Ron to accuse us of snogging each other's faces off or something else entirely crude." As she spoke, she began to entwine his fingers with her own. "This'll give them something to talk about though," she said, jerking her head slightly.

Together, they wandered down the stairs; Harry quickly ran his hand down his sides, attempting to slightly flatten his dishevelled clothing, but it proved about as useful on his shirt as upon his hair. Ron was the first to meet their eyes as they scampered out into the hallway, but then, the most shocking sound came from the corner, where George was sitting, that eternal hunch in his back gone for the first time in days.

He was wolf-whistling, and, for the Weasley family, Harry and Hermione, it had to be one of the most glorious sounds they'd ever heard.

Glancing slightly at Ginny, who was obviously making a lame attempt at hiding her still crimson face from Ron, Harry asked cheerfully, "Who wants their presents?"


	2. Small Victories

**Chapter 2**

**-Small Victories-**

**Neville, Luna & Ginny**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Victory_

**"It's not the size of the victory that counts, but how much it means for those who receive it." – Cuba.**

**i**

Seamus' snores echo like thunder, they seem to embody the ghostly darkness, spirits that spread themselves across Neville's hazy, sleepless horizon. It is not the noise of his friend that stops him from sleeping, more the eerie, too still silence that lies in the spaces between harsh breaths.

These days, silence is deadly.

The Christmas tree that occupies the corner of the dorm, shrouded by the murky shadows cast by the moonlight, is the focus of Neville's attention. A small stack of haphazard presents sits beneath it. It is such a small beacon of hope, the light in dark times. Involuntarily, Neville shudders; thinking of a Christmas Day under the Carrows' tenebrous regime is anything but pleasant.

Still, his eyes are drawn to the tree, even with its shabby appearance (none of the remaining Gryffindor boys are overly brilliant with decorative spells), it represents faith, faith that all hope is not lost. The tree reminds him of what he's fighting for.

As the elongated hand of the clock brushes over the twelve, welcoming in yet another Christmas Day, Neville cannot help but be thankful for such a small victory.

**ii.**

Luna stares thoughtfully around, her once sparkling blue orbs now tainted with truth, with desperation and with fear. Words pile up in her throat, each bursting to bubble over and spill out, but none of them seem fitting of such a gloomy place. In the corner, which is damp, musty and black as ash, Mr Ollivander slumbers. His rest is not undisturbed though, Luna can see his body writhing with the horrors of days long past.

Here, there is nothing to drive such insanity provoking thoughts from your mind, they constantly surge up from the depths, ghosts with nothing to do but haunt you.

More to stop her fingers dancing to the tune of tedium than anything else, Luna scrambles across the floor, feeling everything. She isn't sure what she hopes to find, or really, if she wants to find anything at all, but anything is better than the agitated, spasmodic sleep and disconcerting dreams that are surely plaguing Mr Ollivander.

Her fingers seem to stumble across something, and she grins. She is holding a key, and though there are no doors, not to the outside world, nor to what she truly wants most, her friends, it's a tiny discovery in the mass of despair. This key may not unlock the dungeon, but it could just unlock her faith.

As Mr Ollivander rustles in his sleep and somewhere upstairs in this luxurious mansion, a family celebrates the beginning of Christmas Day, Luna cannot help but be thankful for such a small victory.

**iii.**

Ginny fiddles with the radio, her nails scraping against the dial as she listens eagerly for the station. Her eyes, droopy from lack of sleep, flutter slightly; her eyelashes, as fragile as butterfly wings, droop, and then snap to attention again. Tapping the radio impatiently with her wand, Ginny sighs to herself, her misty breath seems to mingle with the chilly winter air. Fred said they would try to broadcast around midnight, and she still doesn't have the password. Her face is awash with frustration, she can almost feel the frown lines and harshness of the creases eating away at her complexion, the slight anger she is feeling is eating away at her.

She taps the radio with her wand again, suppressing a scream as sparks force themselves from the tip, their cherry red colour embodying her feelings perfectly. They represent her anger, but also, they represent love, something she has been missing lately.

"_Love," _she whispers, her voice almost lost amongst the callous silence that plagues her bedroom. One of the Weird Sisters nods encouragingly, her purple robes billowing on her small frame, as the radio suddenly crackles, and Fred's voice pours out, comforting and refreshing.

As the words "and now we welcome River," echo throughout the still night, followed by the words "Merry Christmas to all," Ginny cannot help but be thankful for such a small victory.


	3. Fighting

**Chapter 3**

**-****Fighting-**

**Sirius**

_Merry Christmas to __Avindara Nirvene_

Falling snowflakes sting Sirius' face like a swarm of bees as he steps out the door; the damn freezing weather is persistent, determined to drive him inside, back to the stifling warmth of the fireplace and the shine of glittery, glossy baubles on the Christmas tree and the aura of perfect family life that empowers and ensnares the Potters. He fights the elements, just like he fought is stupid family and damn Snivellus and those fucked up demons that haunt him.

(but did he fight, or did he run?)

Christmas carols echo through the garden, which is already a cacophony of crickets and whistling snowflakes and enchanted Christmas fairies. Inside, the Potters are singing and dancing and cheering, their silhouettes glow against the snow splattered windows. They are shadows reminiscent of a life Sirius can never have. He's wet and he's damn freezing and _fuck, this is crap, Christmas with Bella is better than this, and why didn't I put some damn gloves on, my damn hands are freezing._

(Bellatrix is insane and twisted, and sometimes, he fears he is going the same way)

Sirius wonders why they seem so cheery, even James' reflection, shining bright against the foggy window helps to prove he's a shitty dancer, something that's been wide knowledge for years. He was a bastard, and he screamed and he yelled and her ran and he insulted the very core of their _oh so perfect_existence, and yet they're putting on their happy family mask and spinning and twirling to Silent Night. Vividly, he remembers the coarse wrapping paper, rough like sand granules under his fingers, and the glow of a proud mother that flittered through Mrs Potters' brilliant blue eyes. Images of a happy family, of a life that cannot ever be his, because destiny has been a cold, harsh bitch and chosen a different path for him than the one he wishes so desperately to follow. This is what he has fought for and dreamed of and wanted for so long and then he got it, and he panicked.

(maybe, just maybe, dreams are sweeter and more luscious than reality)

James and Julie and Bob are lovely and cherished and so damn smothering and the scene where they will him to love his new robes has been tattooed under his eyelids, it's burning and aching and his mind is imploding and _face it Sirius, you're jealous and you want this, you want what they have and you want to be James and you're just acting like the stupid, jealous, fucked up bastard that you are and you want life to screw you over just so you can wallow in it. _

(knowing the truth is a world away from accepting it)

It's Christmas and he's cold and wet from the damn melting snow that litters the garden and he's miserable and he can escape all this with half a dozen steps to the front door and one small apology leaking from his mouth. To Sirius, that's torture.

So instead, he sits on a log and puts his face in his hands as though hiding his face from the tragedy that is the play he seems to be staring in will also drive the memories from his mind. His face feels damp, but he can't tell if that's his hair, dripping from the snow that falls from the bare, and seemingly lifeless tree branches or if it's from his damn weeping eyes.

(he's a Gryffindor, and there's some unwritten law that says Gryffindors aren't supposed to cry)

Slowly, the few rays of sun that have won their epic battle against the clouds dissipate and day fades into night, the change between dull grey and tenebrous black seems effortless. Sirius has always had a connection with the night; it's easier to hide your anger, your despair and your tears under the cover of the darkness. Inside, the party is fading, the haziness and shadows of the dancing family are fading into other parts of the house and they are spreading their Christmas cheer into other rooms and _I should go inside, because this is misery, pure and utter misery, but Prongs will laugh and this is stupid and …_

(sometimes, unspoken words and dreams hidden in the back of minds haunt the most)

Sirius trudges through the snow, the short walk made treacherous by stray thoughts. His boots are soaked, absorbing the water like those damn stupid sponge things Muggles use to clean and his hand are numb from the bloody cold and the fact that he was too damn thick to remember his gloves. He stands at the door, it is the boundary between their life and his, it blocks him both physically and emotionally and he has to fight again, and overcome the differences. He feels like a prop, something to be manipulated and used and never happy because in the end, he's discarded and left to watch all the actors take the glory and _why the fuck can't you just hurry up and knock, at this rate it'll be bloody next Christmas before you lift your hand to the door._

(all he ever does is fight and then fight again)

"Prongs," he whispers into the darkness, as though his friend can actually hear him, his voices is indiscernible from the Christmas carols and the fairies and everything else that damn sings around here, and Sirius wonders if James will let him in, he knows he has every right not to, and _bloody hell, the damn door is locked and hammering on it won't make the best impression._

"Alohamora."

(he's unlocked both the door and his harsh heart)

Three pairs of eyes bore into him, they're chewing and gnawing away at his now exposed soul with stares alone, the silence is deafening and the anticipatory air suffocating.

"Merry Christmas mate."

Everything is happening so quickly and it's all blurred and shrouded and James is thumping his back, a gesture that proves their friendship has both changed and stayed the same. It hurts, because Sirius wants to be yelled, tortured, made to suffer for all the hurt and pain and suffering he has inflicted on this poor family, something in the back of his mind is telling him he's done the wrong thing, and he knows it's true and he should be punished for it. Instead of saying anything though, he whacks James back, a little harder than necessary, and forces a grin as his friend says, "We knew you'd come to your senses and come back."

"Merry Christmas, Prongs."

(after all this time, is the fighting worth it?)


	4. Talking of Family

**Chapter 4**

**-****Talking of Family-**

**Scorpius/Rose**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Dance_

"You know," Rose said, in a poor attempt to deflect the attention away from the hundred of eyes still boring into them, "the last time Hogwarts had a Christmas ball, our parents were in their fourth year."

Scorpius nodded, pushing a stray lock of platinum blonde hair from his eyes and feeling slightly unnerved by the staring. Surely people had something better to do than watch two people have a perfectly innocent conversation, waiting for them to become predictable and start a Weasley on Malfoy fight. Like dance, perhaps, or celebrate Christmas, which was why they were actually there.

"Yeah, Blaise, he's my dad's friend, always tells me about some of my father's post-dance, drunken escapades with Pansy Parkinson, as though I actually wanted to hear such horror stories."

His girlfriend shuddered in disgust, shaking her head and letting her frizzy, bright red curls cascade down her shoulders. Scorpius wrapped an arm around her; the crowds incessant ogling and looks of shock almost made him wish he hadn't. Three whole damn months they'd been going out, and people were still hovering around like miniature Rita Skeeters, trying to get the scoop. Just because their parents had quite the reputation for not getting along, and Rose and Scorpius had spent much of their first seven years at Hogwarts fighting, it had nothing to do with anyone else.

Scorpius was so lost in thought; he almost didn't hear Rose try to strike up the conversation again.

"… and Mum went with Viktor Krum and apparently Dad sat in the corner and glared at him, even though Mum didn't really like him, he was pretty ugly and she only said yes to be polite. Uncle Harry was there too, and he reckons that my dad completely ignored his date, even though, in hindsight, she was fairly pretty. My Aunt Ginny slapped him for that one."

"Your mum danced with Viktor Krum?" Scorpius echoed in disbelief. Shifting his body slightly to accommodate the couple beside him, who were so firmly attached at the mouth, he doubted that they would notice if he used an _Avada Kedavra _to wrench them apart. Rose squinted down at the now extremely narrow gap between them, pushing her glasses back so they framed her deep, chocolate brown eyes again. Scorpius thought she looked a little unnerved, but then again, it had always been said that men, especially Malfoy men, weren't adept when it came to the mysterious wonders of the female mind.

"Yeah, it's been years since Dad and Viktor saw each other, at my Uncle Bill and Aunt Fleur's wedding, and I'm not allowed to mention him to Dad, 'cause he gets really pissed and goes bright red. Damn Weasley blood."

"Oh, because my dad told me that your Mum was a stupid Mud-girl, who spent most of her time in the library and showing off in Professor Snape's classes, even though he didn't exactly like her."

Rose was bewildered, she'd always known that she and Scorpius had very different family backgrounds, heck, just the fact that she'd inherited the red Weasley locks while Scorpius had the sleek blonde hair of his father showed so much about where they had come from, but she'd never quite understood that they were _this _different.

"You call him Professor, and he's been dead, what … twenty-six years?"

"My dad had the utmost respect for him, and always addressed him as such" Scorpius laughed, but it sounded hollow, almost forced. "Probably the only tradition I've actually carried on."

The crowd had thinned out now, and glancing slightly at her watch, Rose realised it was almost midnight; they had been sitting around for hours talking. Heck, they'd been to a damn ball and they hadn't danced once, they were too enraptured by conversation.

"My mum and dad used to hate him, they thought he was fighting for the other side, and he hexed my Uncle George's ear off, but then there was some scandal involving him and Uncle Harry's mum and a basin that belonged to Dumbledore and now they trust him, but Dad still calls him a bastard or a git whenever he can." She stopped and quickly drew a harsh breath. "Care to dance."

"Or cour-what the …?"

Rose gestured shyly towards the dance floor.

"Come on, we haven't danced once all night and now, there's no-one left to laugh at us and point and stare, because all the gossipers have gotten bored with our sad little pathetic, fight-less lives and gone to bed."

"Why do we need to dance?"

"Scorpius Lucius Malfoy, we have spent the last seven years at each others' throats, and not in a snogging way. Surely one dance won't kill you if that didn't."

Scorpius nodded begrudgingly, allowing Rose to drag him into the middle of the Hall, where only a few couples remained, their heads resting on each other shoulders. Taking both her hands in his, he muttered, "One and two and one and two … would you two please stop damn staring?"


	5. Damn

**t he s p i r i t o f c h r i s t m a s **

**(Damn) **

It means nothing, Sirius tells himself, as he wriggles closer to the fireplace, where Remus sits, his hands outstretched. They're only sitting together because it's late on Christmas Eve and it's freezing outside and he's frozen. It's got nothing to do with the fact that Remus is_ damn _sexy and_damn _tantalising and he smells so _damn _good, like warm pots of coffee spiked with chocolate sauce and Butterbeer and tree sap.

He watches Remus out of the corner of his eye, his snow flecked eyelashes hiding some of the longing that flitters through his stormy grey eyes. He's only watching his friend because he looks tired, the land of drowsiness and dreams is calling him, and falling asleep in the common room is the easiest way to inflict torture upon yourself, mainly in the form of laughter and pranks. It's got nothing to do with the fact that watching Remus stare into the distant depths of the fire is so _damn_ alluring, and absolutely nothing to do with the fact that all this staring is helping some _damn_ lurid and _damn_ unwholesome dreams to materialise from the depths of his mind.

Sirius scoots even closer, watching Remus for sign of discomfort, because there is no possible way on this planet that his friend would be anything other than perfectly straight, and there's absolutely no way he would ever think of Sirius as more than a friend. He slips his arm around Remus' shoulder, telling himself all the while that it's only because it's bitterly cold and not because he's actually enjoying the shivering caused by his mate's _damn _silken skin under his coarse, harsh fingers. He's only doing it for warmth, not because Remus' skin is making him feel so _damn _exhilarated and so _damn _free.

"Merry Christmas," Remus mutters suddenly, glancing down at his watch. "It's past midnight."

They both lapse into silence again, and Sirius is dying for Remus to talk. He tells himself it's because friends should have conversations and share secrets. There's no way he wants to hear Remus speak again because his voice is so _damn _gravely and so _damn_ breathtaking for the ears and the soul. It's got nothing to do with the fact that his lips are so _damn _gorgeous when he pouts or frowns or speaks, heck, when he does anything.

Surely it's normal to think such things about your best friend. If it isn't, then Sirius is definitely going insane.

"Merry Christmas," Sirius repeats, laughing slightly as Remus shudders and is released from partial slumber. "You look stuffed, coming to bed?" The fact that 'coming to bed,' has a very different connotation in his mind than it did when embodied by the air and his harsh, raspy voice means nothing, Sirius tells himself. They're both cold, and if they climb into the same bed then it's only to keep warm and create less work for the house elves, it's not like he wants to shag Remus or anything.

Remus nods wearily, and Sirius can see that exhaustion is taking it's toll, especially since the full moon has only just faded in the last few nights, the memories of werewolves and paw prints are still ingrained in Sirius' overwhelmed mind.

"Shall we?" he asks, gesturing towards the boys' dormitories, and shuddering slightly as a cold breeze whips him. The fire is dying, fading slowly away, and Sirius fears that he will go the same way if he doesn't avoid these _damn _unwholesome and _damn_ perfect and _damn_ illusory thoughts.

Sirius stretches his hand out, preparing to help his friend up from the floor. It means nothing, of course, that his hands linger, anticipating a touch reminiscent of lovers, not of friends. Obviously he just wants to make sure his friend will not stagger and collapse, falling back to the plush carpet that smothers the floor. Together, they stride across the floor, their footsteps together in perfect harmony. He's only watching his friend's _damn_ confident strides out of scientific amusement, certainly not because Remus has _damn _toned legs beneath the ghost-like white of his skin. White and Black, Sirius thinks. Opposites. Certainly not destined to be together for eternity.

"Sirius."

The young man in question is awoken from his thoughts by his name, sounding so _damn _sexy and so _damn _pure.

"What?" he asks, his voice is radiating confusion and love and repressed passion, it's dry and callous.

"We're standing under mistletoe."

Sirius' gaze tilts slowly upwards, because there is no way Remus can be suggesting what he's thinking and why can't he get rid of these_ damn _passionate and _damn _forbidden thoughts?

"Well …" he says, not sure exactly what he wants to here; would he rather live his life having tasted what could have been, or forgetting what hadn't happened?

"I mean, there's no-one around," Remus says shyly, "but it is Christmas Day, and this is a Christmas tradition."

Sirius nods, passion speeds through him, swimming through his veins like a fish in the sea, hurtling head-first towards an unknown destination.

Eventually, after several moments that are both _damn _enticing and _damn_ terrifying, he nods again.

"Why not?"

It means nothing, Sirius thinks. It's just because it's a stupid tradition and Remus has to be so _damn_ honourable and follow the stupid rules. It's not like he's doing it because he likes me or anything.

Cautiously, they lean in, and suddenly there lips are meeting and fireworks are exploding and this is so _damn _perfect that for a second Sirius forgets all about his preconceived misconceptions about him and Remus ever being more than friends and he loses himself in the moment.

Suddenly, Remus is pulling away and Sirius is aching to hold on.

"I'm sorry," Remus mumbles, his face is pointed at his shoes. I shouldn't have led you on. I know you'll never like me and I shouldn't have and I'm an arse, a complete and utter arse and just ignore all that."

"I like you," Sirius said, shivering slightly, though whether it was from the cold or nerves he couldn't tell. He feels like he is riding a wave, only without one of those stupid wooden things that Muggles use, he is out of control and drowning. He's about to elaborate, but Remus cuts him off with another kiss, and from his friend's wriggling body Sirius can tell the moment of passion has been bought on my desperation and an inability to voice his feelings.

"So …?" Remus asks curiously, his face as tarnished with confusion and curiosity as Sirius'.

"_Damn."_

**--- **

(a/n: Merry Christmas, Gaby, and thanks for all the reviews I've had from you.)


	6. Tainted by Dreams

**t h e s p i r i t o f c h r i s t m a s **

**(Tainted Dreams) **

"Severus." Eileen Snape's voice is both compassionate and comforting, and yet it ensnares Severus with the vicious urge to rip, to tear, to become fanatical and become unhinged and kill. Looking down upon himself from above, viewing himself from the pondering eyes of others, he does not deserve such kind words and displays of love, because, in the end, it is meaningless, as important and useful as a lone sock or a broken quill.

"You need to stop moping. It's Christmas Eve, for God's sake; go out with some friends and party." Eileen stops, brushing a lone lock of black hair from her face, and gives her son, who is crouched, almost childlike, beside the Christmas tree, a piteous look. "Who's that nice boy you brought home once, was his name Lucius?"

"He's not a nice man, Mum, and certainly not a boy." Severus wonders what his mother would think of his acquaintances if he knew the real them, the ruthless, crude, bloodthirsty beasts that quite blissfully rip and tear and kill. What would she think if she knew the real Lucius Malfoy, and the real Bartimus Crouch, and the real Severus Snape?

Eileen opens her mouth, cherry red lips parting slightly, but Severus shuts her off; her words are not but reminiscent of broken dreams, of fading sunsets and green eyes that sparkle like the ocean on a warm summer's day. Things he can never have, the seem to dance in front of him, alluring and tantalising, so he reaches a little further and they disappear.

"Just fuck off Mum, just fuck off." Eileen reels back, her son has never sworn in front her, in fact, Severus is so used to repressing him emotions that even he wonders where this spark has come from, it's engulfing him, and he keeps on shouting, purposely avoiding his mother's eyes.

"Like you've never screwed up. Dad's probably at the pub getting wasted and probably singing Christmas carols in a voice that makes him sound constipated, and you're here, telling _me_ to get a life." A flicker of hurt flashes across Eileen's face, but it is quickly snuffed out, a candle that has been extinguished by awkward silences and heartache. Severus notices this, his dark, shadowy eyes narrow slightly, but he ignores it, too enraged to care. It's been ages since he's actually let anything out of his tightly sealed self.

Fingering one of the small golden baubles that hangs from the tattered Christmas tree, he yells, "You don't know jack shit about my life, I loved her and I killed her and she's damn gone." His mother nods, but Severus can tell it's mechanical and forced, his mother cannot even begin to truly comprehend the reality of his words, sharp and cutting and so unlike him. Eileen Snape lives in a world of illusions, where mirrors reflect diamonds instead of rust, where scorched and frayed carpet is suddenly the décor of a room fit for a king, and where Severus is anything but enigmatic and hard to understand.

"Just … just go."

She walks out, the first of many tears gracing her face, and Severus avoids looking at her.

Pulling his wand from his back pocket, he turns it over and over in his hands, as though repetition and routine can _really_ purge harsh memories and gut-wrenching mistakes. The Christmas tree is a labour of Eileen's love, for a woman with a bitter, twisted and drunk husband and a ruthless killing machine for a son; it reflects everything she could ever want. The perfect home, the perfect life, the perfect family.

This isn't love though, Severus knows that, this is just an existence, where everyday is another blissful dream or another feverish nightmare, depending on how lucky you are. Dreams are painful though, they're so vivid and Severus is close to losing himself in memories of days long gone, where the sun shone, rivaled only by the glow of her fiery red hair.

He stumbles across the room, before rapidly digging through box after box, looking for something that could embody her spirit, her passionate soul. This house is devoid of passion though. Turning his wand over again, shivering as its harsh tip scratches his palm, the same palm which opened the door when he discovered the prophecy. He wrenches some wrapping paper from a nearby table; magic seems a far away dream, remnants of another person's life in his feverish haste. Quickly, he scurries down the hallway to this room, delving into _that_ box, the one which has not been touched since … His coarse fingers stumble across the box, with its fancy bow-tie and its memories of over planned proposals and stuttering in front of the mirror at midnight.

Severus waves his wand at the wrapping paper, shuddering as it wriggles through the air, reminiscent of her long tresses, flowing in the wind. He paces across the room towards their Christmas tree, complete with the threadbare tinsel his mother has not been bothered to repair. Setting the ring down, he places his hand on top of it, allowing himself, just for a small moment in time, to imagine what could have been.

"Merry Christmas Lily."

The reality of it hits Severus like a tonne of bricks. She is dead, dead by the palm that graced the ring he'd always wanted to give to her. As his mother marches back into the room, a grim smile on her face, he realises that, sorrowfully, they are both tainted by dreams.

**--- **

(a/n: Merry Christmas Frayed Misfit, and thanks for the awesomecakey times, the Regulus discussions, well … everything really)


	7. Christmas Crackers

**Chapter 7**

**-Christmas Crackers-**

**LilyxJames**

_Merry Christmas to Lexie H_

"Bloody hell Padfoot."

James waved his wand wildly in the direction of his glasses, choking on the thick, smothering clouds of smoke that enveloped him.

"Next time you decide to pull a Christmas cracker, can you make sure the damn thing doesn't decide to explode in my face?"

Sirius nodded, holding up the tattered remnants of the bon-bon apologetically. It was obvious to all that he was struggling to keep a massive grin from slipping across his face and stretching from ear to ear like a skid mark. Lily began to laugh, a soft, tinkling laugh that didn't quite fit her vibrant, no-fuss personality, before she too started spluttering, a horrendous smell filtering through her nostrils.

"Heck, Sirius, did you somehow manage to put dragon dung in these? You're lucky I'm married to your best friend, otherwise …" She left her threat to hang in the air, accompanied by the smog, as James emerged from where he'd taken refuge under the table.

"You should bottle that stuff and sell it. You'd make a mint, because it'd damn well kill Voldemort himself. It'd make brilliant protection against Death Eaters."

Remus and Peter nodded enthusiastically, before Remus coyly added, a smile similar to the one Sirius was vainly attempting to suppress gracing his face.

"What makes you think it was all Sirius' idea?"

Amidst the sea of confusion and hysterical laughter that ensued, no-one noticed James duck under the table again, coughing and spluttering like crazy.

"How could you Remus?" he heard Lily ask. "All these times I thought you were the good, sensible one, the nice ickle little prefect, and then you do _this_." As James popped his head out from under the table, his hair more ruffled than ever and his glasses falling slightly down his nose due to the awkward position his head had been stuck in under the table, Lily lifted her fork to her mouth.

"Sirius, I am going to kill you, these potatoes … they're horrible." She glared at him, before quickly adding, "and you too Remus, and Peter I suppose."

Peter blushed. "It … it was all Sirius' idea, I just kind of smuggled the flavouring into the food."

"It was our Christmas present to you," Sirius laughed, ducking slightly as Lily glared at him, yet again. He'd seen the things she'd done to his best friend, and this time, she had a damn knife in her hand.

"Some Christmas present, Sirius Orion Black, some Christmas present indeed."

Inconspicuously pushing his food away from him (the spiked food had nothing to do with him), he glanced warily at Lily. "Lily darling, usually we save the emotional outbursts for _after _the Firewhiskey."

"My version of 'usually' does not involve my dinner table smelling like a rather large Hungarian Horntail, nor does it involve my potatoes tasting water from a Muggle sewer … and no, Sirius, I do not care to explain what that is, especially not when all I want to do is enjoy my turkey and tell my damn husband that I'm pregnant in peace."

"So, Lily dearest, because you know you love me and all, just not _quite _as much as Prongsie here, you'll tell me what a sewer is, wont … you're_pregnant_?"

Lily nodded, she, along with everyone else except Sirius, was still reeling from her shock outburst.

"I just did the tests on Thursday, and I thought it would make a nice surprise for Christmas. I can't believe it, James and I are going to be parents."

James, it appeared, was having the most trouble of them all when it came to processing the information.

"You mean that, in nine months, we're going to be parents?" His voice seemed somewhat dream-like, almost surreal, as though he did not have the energy to speak any louder than a shrouded whisper.

"Less, actually," Lily announced to her shocked friends. "It's due just before the end of July."

James' eyes flickered wildly, and Lily prepared herself for any number of protests and shocked outbreaks. Instead, he flung his arms wildly around Sirius' neck, ignoring his best friend's incessant squeaking.

"Did you hear that, Padfoot, did you? I'm going to be a father."

Remus barely had time to marvel at his friends' extroverted reaction before James was upon him too, arms flailing like the tentacles of an octopus stranded on land.

"I'm going to be a father, and there's going to be a little James Junior running around the house, and …" He trailed off, before scurrying over to Peter, and flinging his arms around him as well.

"James Septimus Potter," Lily snorted, resting a hand on her stomach as she chuckled at her husband's childish antics, "I don't care what happens, and what torture I have to put you through, we are not naming our child James. Because heaven help us if he turns out like you."

"Lily darling," James replied, wondering why she didn't hex him for using the name she abhorred, "Nothing you do would torture me, because I love you too much."

With that, he sprinted further around the heavily laden table, pushing his glasses, which had slid down his slightly arrogant, but incredibly proud face, back on to the bridge of his nose, and planted a big, sloppy kiss on her lips. Sirius shuddered, but Lily was sure she heard him make a comment about how much it was nice to see 'dear old Prongsie' in love. Remus could not help but ogle the couple, and judging by the fact that Peter's lower lip was dangling incredibly close to his chin, it seemed that Peter was just as shocked by the passionate display.

Remus was the first to recover, leaning over Peter to wrap a spindly arm around Lily's shoulders.

"Well," he said brightly. "You can't say we haven't had an interesting Christmas. First Sirius with his little joke and now …"

He was interrupted by an irate Lily screeching, "Sirius Black, you did _not_ just pull another Christmas Cracker."


	8. The Face of a Traitor

**Chapter 2**

**-The Face of a Traitor-**

**Ron **

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Mirror _

Wind whistled through the open window, sending shivers down Ron's spine as it danced across his diminutive bedroom, twirling and swirling to a beat that he could not hear. Rolling across his already creased bed, Ron yanked his wand from the bedside table and waved it at the window, allowing a slight smile to grace his face as it slid shut with a bang. He could hear Bill and Fleur from downstairs, and he sighed, they were probably discussing what to do with him again, as though he were nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess, ready to be used and moved

Echoes of a past that seemed an age ago filtered through his mind as he began to fiddle with the knobs on his radio, more out of boredom than any actual urge to listen to the radio. They seemed to shimmer gracefully through the air, before unmasking their true evil by swooping down and attacking.

"… _loves him more, what are you beside him?"_

"… _they don't need you, what are you? Nothing, that's what. Nothing."_

The words fumbled and tossed and turned in his mind, they sounded like excuses for his treachery when they were so real, more real than anything Ron had ever experienced before. Ginny barely mentioned her ordeal, a distant memory after all they'd been through since, and yet, Ron was starting to believe that he knew what being possessed felt like. Remembering that he had left his sheet of password buried deep in his chest of drawers, he scurried across his room to the table; shuddering as he spotted his own droopy, wilting eyes staring at him. He stared at the mirror adoring his table, and it glared back, his own face seeming to haunt him as much that damn locket had. Mirrors could not lie; it was not in their nature to be persuaded by the subtleties of the human mind.

Staring back at Ronald Weasley was the freckly, smudged face of a traitor.

They were probably enjoying their Christmas, sitting close by one of Hermione's (his heart ached at the sound of her name writhing through his mind) specialties, those bright blue fires that had accompanied his lustful heart to sleep many a night. Or, Ron thought, shivering suddenly, maybe they were doing something more. Waving his wand haphazardly around his room and flinching as his reflex action involved narrowly missing his eye, he summoned his radio. It crackled halfheartedly as his fingers found the dials again.

"Fawkes," Ron whispered, his voice almost drowned out by the hazy beginnings of a new fight between Bill and Fleur. They would be fighting about him, as always, and he knew that he was nothing but an imposition, yet he could not bring himself to go back. Harry and Hermione would have moved on, heck, without him they'd probably found all the Horcruxes anyway would be on Voldemort's doorstep within days. It wasn't like they were going to be actually _missing _him or anything.

Christmas was almost over, and yet it had not felt like a celebration at all. Bill and Fleur had tried their hardest, even giving up Christmas with the family for his sake, and yet Ron had not enjoyed a minute of it. Wallowing was only enjoyable when you did it alone, with company it turned into more of an act. Every awkward silence, every half-hearted Christmas carol, all tainted with a French accent had resonated throughout the room, flooding Ron's mind with images of what his friends (could he even call them that after what he'd done?) were doing.

Just as Kingsley's deep voice began to voice opinions on exactly where Harry was this week, Ron couldn't help but notice a flash of light over by his bed. The cold air bit at his skin, leaving its mark in the form of goose bumps as he crossed the room in two length strides. It was the Deluminator, that stupid, rotten, anything but helpful thing that had become buried under the ancient comics of Bill's that were Ron's only friend amongst the torturous memories of friends and fights and an infinitely gorgeous girl with bushy brown hair. A ball of light was pulsating around the Deluminator, and eerily, it seemed to be echoing his name, allowing the bitter air that filled his room to embody it and swirl it around upon the windy waves that leaped and raced.

"… _Ron … Ron …"_

He grabbed at the ball, falling over himself at his first exuberant movement in days, and waited for the sound to occur again, because surely he was dreaming, and wasn't that Hermione's voice saying that? As he went to touch the ball, finally recognising it for what it was, he glanced, one final time, into the mirror.

"… _Ron … Ron …"_

Staring back at Ronald Weasley was the freckly, smudged face of a traitor.

But maybe, just maybe, this traitor could become a hero.


	9. Reality and Dreams, Part I

**Chapter 9**

**-Reality and Dreams-**

**RemusxLily **

_Twelve Fics of Christmas prompt: Kiss_

**Please note: **This fic is the first of two parts. The second part will be inspired by the prompt 'all is well,' even though Remus lovers are fully aware of how much JK Rowling was lying with that statement.

The air reeks of broken promises and unreciprocated dreams as they lay there, curled together on the couch. One feels suffocated by the lack of distance between shivering bodies, the other longs for more.

"I'm going to tell him, tonight, I think," Lily mumbles into her hands, her vibrant red tresses gently scratch Remus' chin as she tilts her head to the side, attempting to gauge his reaction.

"Tell who what?" Remus replies, even though somehow, he already knows. He just doesn't want to accept the truth, because with truth comes harsh reality, the kind that is strong, not fragile, and can only be snapped with meaningless dreams that taint the mind and haunt the soul.

"I'm going to tell James, that, finally, I want to be with him. You know, spreading the Christmas cheer and all that jazz." Lily casually throws her hands in the air and gives out a half-hearted laugh, but it cannot remove the levity of the claim, nor can it help to alleviate Remus' stray thoughts of _what? _and _since when_? and _why?_

The last thought is the one that is fired from his mouth, flowing over the edge like the froth on a Butterbeer.

"Why?" Remus asks, regretting it instantly, as Lily's whole demeanor changes. Her body slides down the rigid back of the couch, and her wand, clenched tightly in her hand, emits a few sparks.

"I'm sick of this. Everyone, and I mean _everyone, _has spent the last four years telling me that I'm in love with James, and then, when I finally admit, they can't seem to accept that fact."

"Love?" he echoes, ignoring those stray thoughts that seem to enjoy stabbing him, dragging themselves through him like knives. "You haven't even been on date with him yet, let alone kissed him yet, and you're in love?"

"Think, Remus," Lily says, "James is in love with me, and he hasn't been on a date with me, either, unless I was thoroughly under the influence of Firewhiskey and therefore don't remember a thing." She leans over him, reaching for the plate of biscuits that lies, abandoned by the promise of a rather more intriguing conversation, and can't help but breathe in her essence, her very scent. She smells like orange peels and coffee, a tantalizing blend, but more than that, Lily Evans smells like dreams, like everything he wants and can't have.

"So what's the difference?" Lily continues, apparently unaware of his discomfort as she crunches upon her cookie. "He loved me, and he barely knew anything about me and at least I know him, a little bit now."

"You're not supposed to be in love with him, you're supposed to be in love with …" Remus cuts his sentence short, severing any ties with it and with the destruction it could and would cause.

Unfortunately, Lily's sharp, vivid eyes narrow, focusing only on him and her voice is laced with pre-emptive danger, the harshness of it all warns Remus not to make a single wrong move.

"You're … you're supposed to be in love with me," he replies feebly, because it is too late for lies, his soul has been exposed from the moment he smelt the fickle promise of being able to fly high, powered by nothing but a dream. His eyes capture the Christmas tree that stands in the morning, and he runs a hand nervously through his sandy brown hair, reminiscent of the very person they are discussing. Vaguely, he wonders what the time is, if Christmas has arrived yet, dragging its annual deliver of excitement and fervent joy along through the freezing snow.

And then he waits, for her to run, to hide to explode, to do anything. Anything other than say she's sorry.

"I'm sorry," Lily mutters, "But, look, you're a great friend, but I don't love you, I can't love you."

Those stupid thoughts echo throughout Remus' head again, bouncing off the walls and falling deep into the pit, unable to escape the rough confines of his mind, and once again, it's _why _that flits its way to the surface.

"Why?" he asks again, oblivious to the fact that he already knows that the answer lies somewhere with James. It's obvious she's lying, her words ooze everything but regret and sorrow, and yet he appreciates that she's attempting to keep his dream alive by filling the air with capricious words.

"Because, look, I love James, not … not you. I'm sorry Remus, but I'm sure there's someone out there willing to give you what you want, it's just not me."

That's when he began to claw at her face, dragging down into the murky depths of his mind and his mouth.

She tastes like dreams too, like eternal happiness and rays of sunshine that fight through the sunset to wave goodbye one last time. Her smell is still intoxicating, her breath still lingers on his face as she rips her head back.

"I can't do this," she mumbles, her words blowing directly into that soft silky looking palm of hers. "It's not fair to James, or to me, or even to you really. Merry Christmas Remus."

And with that, she scurries out, leaving Remus with nothing but fading dreams and a few snapshots of what could have been.


	10. Presents

**Chapter 10**

**-Presents-**

**Teddy**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Photograph_

The Christmas tree shone with glittery lights and baubles as the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the windows of the Potter mansion, illuminating several sleeping bodies. Teddy rolled over, rubbing his eyes (today they were blue), as though such a small movement could prevent the sun from burning his eyelids with its brightness. Snowflakes slid slowly down the glass, and Teddy could not help but watch two of them fall as though it were a race, and will the littlest one to win, before it melted into a watery pile on the window pane.

He tore downstairs, screwing his face up and changing his hair to a festive red in honour of the occasion, narrowly missing the vase at the bottom of the stairs as he went.

"Wake up Uncle Harry, wake up Grandmamma. Santa's been!"

Teddy's screams echoed through the house, only to be punctured by the sound of an obviously exasperated Uncle Ron yelling "Shut up Teddy. It's only seven o'clock."

Stopping at the door to apologise, he heard a few whispered murmurs, followed by a rather disturbing moan from Aunt Hermione, so he continued scurrying into the lounge room, where Aunt Ginny was waving her wand wildly at her cup of coffee, smiling in delight as steam swirled up and mingled with the misty, cold morning air.

"Okay, okay Teddy," she mumbled, resting a hand gently on her protruding stomach. "You'll wake little James."

Teddy nodded solemnly, unable to keep his excitement contained for any more than a minute, poking Aunt Ginny on the shoulder as she stared into the murky brown of her drink.

"Can we have presents, can we?"

He was interrupted by the sound of resounding footsteps as his cousin Victoire stumbled down the bottom step and into the room, swishing her long blonde tresses and tutting in a brilliant impersonation of her mother.

"Mama's going to kill you," she said simply, and Ginny could not help but let out a giggle as she noticed the look of both indignation and fear that swept across Teddy's face as quickly as a windstorm. "She doesn't like having her beauty sleep disturbed."

Teddy was about to respond, and Ginny cut him off, sensing yet another outburst. As much as she loved the little boy, his energy and intensity scared her at times.

"Of course we can have presents now, Teddy," she said brightly, pushing her cup of coffee aside and straightening out her dressing gown. She gestured wildly towards the stairs, where Uncle Ron was bumbling down, clearly still annoyed over the lack of sleep, and Aunt Hermione was following, her brown locks escaping their plaits and blowing across her shoulders.

"Presents," he cheered, turning around to clap Victoire's hand, she looked at him and laughed before subduing under the watchful eyes of her mother, who had just entered the room with Uncle Bill.

"Teddy wants to open presents," Ginny announced loudly to the now full kitchen. Gesturing towards the lounge room, where the Christmas tree was located, she waited behind, whispering to Harry, who was attempting in vein to flatten his unruly hair, "Maybe that'll shut him and Fleur up. Last thing I need is a hyperactive eight year old and a moody French woman ruining lunch." Harry nodded in agreement, knowing that Ginny didn't really mean any of this, and patted her swollen stomach.

"You're going to be a great mother."

They emerged in the lounge room, only to find Teddy buried under layers of wrapping paper that clashed horribly with his now bright pink hair.

"Thank you Uncle George," he yelled, popping his head out to reveal what would have to be the wildest grin most of the room had ever seen on a child's face. "I love Gobstones. Wanna play with me after breakfast, Vicky?"

"Don't call me that," Victoire groaned, but her deep brown eyes softened as they fell upon Teddy's new present, obviously Gobstones were something she was willing to sacrifice her dignity for. Uncle Ron also looked rather disconcerted at the nickname, but Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything.

"Who's present is next?" Uncle Charlie asked, leaning over Teddy to grab at one of the many haphazardly stacked presents adorning the floor.

"To Teddy, with love, Grandmamma and Uncle Harry," he read from the label, staring at first at Harry, and then at Andromeda, who sat in the corner, watching her grandson, her face flickering between joy at seeing him so contented and disgust at his rowdy, outlandish behaviour.

Harry, who was leaning on the doorframe, watching this large, but incredibly happy family with a grin, threaded his way through the masses of legs and discarded toys to Andromeda. He took the present from Charlie, who gave him a rather confused stare, and beckoned Teddy over.

"This isn't a toy," Grandmamma began, trying to avoid glaring at Teddy as he groaned. "And don't do that, it's not polite when someone's giving you a gift."

Teddy nodded fervently, too excited by the lure of wrapping paper and ribbon to heed his grandmother's lecture. He tore at the paper, its bright colours and Christmas trees quickly reduced to a tattered mess, and stared at the book forlornly.

"It's a book," he said flatly, his attention already diverted back towards the base of the Christmas tree, where Uncle Charlie's son Olaf was unwrapping a toy broomstick and shrieking in delight.

Andromeda gave Harry a quizzical look, and he shrugged in return.

"Look, Teddy," she said kindly, "it's not a book."

Victoire, who was crouched in the corner with Aunt Ginny and her father, snorted. "It's got pages, and looks exactly like one of those boring things that Aunt Hermione reads." Fleur gave her a chastising look, but everyone ignored it, their attention solely focussed on the silent battle of wits between the child and his grandmother.

"It's some pictures of your parents," Andromeda continued, hoping that her words would finally catch his attention. He was just being a typical eight year old, and she wasn't offended by his behaviour, more just concerned that he didn't really understand the true value of his gift.

She flipped open to the first page, which was adorned by a picture of Teddy's mother and father. The sunken face that had greeted Harry many a time during the years Harry had known his father's best friend was gone; it was replaced by a handsome smile and twinkling eyes. Tonks' hair was a vivid pink, and it clashed horribly with her bright yellow dress, making him smile slightly. It was this colour that attracted Teddy as well; he snatched the book from his grandmother's hands, staring at it in disbelief.

"My mother," he said, seeming to glow amongst the delighted smiles of his aunts and uncles, "she had the same colour hair as me." He began to flick slightly through the pictures, ignoring the fervent whispers of Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione about the naivety of children these days, until he heard Victoire's voice, asking him a question.

"So Teddy, what happened to those Gobstones?"

And as Teddy scurried outside after his almost cousin, Andromeda didn't even bother to reprimand him about forgetting his gloves. Instead, she turned to Harry, thankful that even if her grandson would never know the power of memories, he had the photographs to inspire him.


	11. Chocolate and Copper Coins

**Chapter 11**

**-Chocolate and Copper Coins-**

**FredxAngelina**

_Merry Christmas to Rye the Random_

Together, they step to the side, both smiling as brown eyes collide fiercely with grey. It is like chocolate and copper coins, and Fred cannot help but be vividly reminded of pranks and laughter and late night flirting after Quidditch victories. He spins Angelina around, reveling in the feel of her palm in his. Somehow, he spots Ron, fading murkily into the outer edges of his vision. Normally, he would tease 'Ickle Ronnikins,' but tonight is about him and her and them, not love struck brothers and cheap laughs.

They meander across the dance floor, weaving their way around other couples, and Fred lets go of Angelina, suddenly waving his arms about in a poor imitation of a Muffle pop star. Angelina winks at him, her mouth open wide in a pearly white grin. Slowly, Fred leans in; ignoring the wolf whistling that is no doubt coming from George, somewhere on the other side of the room with Alicia. He wishes he could just stop time, right here, right now, on this utterly indescribable Christmas Eve night, and then he laughs at himself, because Fred Weasley is not supposed to think such mushy thoughts.

Faces smash together and somehow silver eye shadow becomes intangible, smudged against dark brown freckles as the kiss lingers. As they pull apart Fred caresses his cheek in disbelief, and Angelina mutters, shifting his hand slightly to trace the spot herself, "It looks like chocolate melted over a copper coin."

Later they sit at a table that could have been Hufflepuff's normally, or even Slytherin's but no-one cares, because for this Christmas night alone, classic barriers have been pulled down and replaced with joy and love, preparing to watch the Christmas cheer and varied dancing ability than actually be caught up in its wake. Their hands are entwined, and Fred mumbles, more to himself than anyone else, "This is perfection, isn't it?"

Angelina looks stunned to hear something other than a joke or sarcastic remark leaking from his mouth, because Fred Weasley is definitely not known for eloquence or waxing poetic.

"What do you mean?" she asks.

"It's Christmas, and everyone's dancing, and joyful, well, except …" he gestures wildly towards Ron, who is still glaring at Viktor Krum with a look that could kill, "and for once, no-one's placing expectations on us."

"Fred Weasley," Angelina laughs, it's harsh and rough, as she absentmindedly places his hand on her lap and fiddles with his fingers, "I never expected you to be so … so thoughtful."

He chuckles along with her.

"And what gave you that impression?" he asks playfully.

"Well, apart from the time you turned McGonagall's hair pink, and your plans to one day invent a portable swamp."

Fred smirks at her, opening his mouth in protest, but she cuts him off with a chaste kiss, the bubbles of laughter seem to swim from her mouth to his. It gets deeper and deeper, her deep, rich brown skin crashes headfirst into his silvery, pale body and it's intense and real and soon, Fred can't even tell who is the chocolate and who is the coin anymore.

"So," he says, "about that whole pink hair thing, what do you say about using it on Malfoy?"


	12. Reality and Dreams, Part II

**Chapter 12**

-**Reality and Dreams, Part II-**

**RemusxTonks**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: All was well_

**Please note: **This is the second part of Reality and Dreams. You do not need to read Part I, which has been posted as Chapter 9 of this story, to fully understand it, but it would help if you did.

They lay together, intangible and eternally twisted, her hair, today flowing and a vibrant green (to brighten up winter, she insists) is draped over his steadily rising and falling chest, and his head rests upon her shoulder, gently caressing it. The frosty winter breeze swoops through the room like a bird, resting upon exposed skin and fragile hearts. He nuzzles her cheek gently, breathing in her very essence and soul; she smells like cinnamon and something he can't quite recognize, her scent has been tarnished, perhaps by the war, perhaps by something a little closer to home. Unspoken apologies and hidden emotions linger in the air, as prevalent as tinsel and glittery baubles that adorn the Christmas tree.

"Why did you go?" Tonks asks, resting a hand on her swollen stomach and rolling over to observe him with the utmost attention. "I just don't get it," she says, and he can hear her voice cracking as all those unspoken words begin to take their first steps in a harsh new world. "We had everything, a marriage, a baby, a happy family, which, in times like these is hard to come by, and you left it all."

"I panicked," Remus replied. "I'm sorry, ok?"

He watches her, her delicate eyelids droop like flower petals in the rain, fluttering with the promise of sleep and dreams, and then snap to attention again as she looks unwaveringly at him.

"I'm sorry," Tonks says, glaring slightly at him "is that all you can say?"

Remus shrugs, his shoulder scraping the bottom of her chin as he struggles to convey so many years of pent up emotion with words. He leans over her; he can feel her sweaty, cold skin sliding gently under his fingers as he reaches for his wand to reapply the heating charms that surround them. She still embodies the striking aroma of cinnamon, mixed together with a touch of harsh reality.

"Look, I didn't know how to handle it. I never thought I'd be a father. And, think about it Tonks," he mumbles, suddenly feeling his own skin, sallow and wrinkled from many years of tears and regret and heartbreak, under his touch as he stares forlornly into his hands, "what ... what if the baby turns out like me? I'm a monster."

Tonks wrenches his hands out from underneath his head, grasping a few stray locks of once sandy brown hair which is now flecked with patches of grey and yanking his head upwards.

"Remus John Lupin," she hisses, "you are not a monster."

She screws her face up, changing her hair back to that bright bubblegum pink that he adores so much, as he opens his mouth, his breath mingling with the misty air and creating spirally clouds that float gently about their heads.

"This war," he says, "it's killing us isn't it? Tearing us apart from the inside and taking away everything we love?"

"Not everything," she replies, "and that's the sort of attitude that going to make us lose the battles. We've got each other, and while I'm not going to pretend that I fully understand you, or why you ran, or why you have trouble believing that you're incredibly sexy and definitely not a monster, but in the end, isn't togetherness what counts?"

Remus pulls her face down to his, allowing the cinnamon and the unrecognisable scents to flood his nostrils and overwhelm his senses and it's so harsh and real and rough and needy. She responds, dragging him closer and wrapping her arms around his shoulders, so intangible and real.

He cannot help but think back to last time he was kissed this passionately at Christmas, all those years ago, when war was nothing but a slight blemish on an otherwise beautiful horizon, full of colour and hope for the future. She smelt like dreams, like things he could never have, but this smell, it's so much more tantalising.

While Lily smelt and tasted like unreciprocated love and impossibilities, Tonks smells and tastes of the past, the present and the future, of certainties. She smells like reality and like everything Remus has ever wanted.

"_I'm sorry Remus, but I'm sure there's someone out there willing to give you what you want, it's just not me."_

He's found reality, which was all he ever longed for.


	13. Twelve Failsafe Ways

**Chapter 13**

**-Twelve Failsafe Ways-**

**RonxHermione & HarryxGinny**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Surprise_

**Random Author's Note: **This one's for Cassandra's Cross, who wanted me to inspire the cute little fluffy plot bunnies and write something that wasn't riddled with depression and drama and angst.

"Ron," Hermione cried, darting downstairs, her dressing gown flapping frantically around her legs like the wings of a bird and her bushy hair falling haphazardly across her shoulders, "hurry up and get ready. Harry and Ginny are almost here."

"Relax woman," Ron chided his girlfriend, choosing to ignore her blatant stare of disgust as he scraped yet another spoonful of ice-cream from the container and poked the spoon into his mouth. Swallowing slightly (he couldn't help but remember exactly how agitated Hermione became when he spoke with his mouth full, and now was not the time to anger her) he said, "It's only Harry and Ginny, our best friend and my stupid little sister."

"That is beside the point, Ron," Hermione replied, reaching across him and snatching the container as he raised his spoon to his mouth yet again. "It's Christmas, and I want to make a good impression."

"You're panicking. The Christmas tree is decorated and surrounded by presents, the lunch is in the oven, and yet you're standing here, half dressed and screeching. Not that seeing you half dressed isn't appealing, but, seriously Hermione, you're going over the top."

"Ron," she chastised again, this time with slightly less venom in her voice. "Flattery is nothing when we have guests coming in a few minutes."

"Flattering?" A voice echoed from the fireplace, and within seconds, Harry was spinning in the flames. He climbed out, and dusted himself off, grinning slightly as his eyes flickered between Ron, who was staring longingly at the ice-cream container, still captive in Hermione's hands, and his girlfriend, whose dressing gown was now incredibly askew as she stood there, obviously torn between laughter and reprimand.

"I know all about flattery, Ronald here gave me a book for my seventeenth birthday."

From behind Hermione, Ron waved his furiously across his throat, but Harry just smirked as he turned to offer his hand to Ginny, who had just appeared.

"Book?" Hermione echoed, her facial expression now suspicious.

"Oh yeah, I meant to tell you about that one day, it's just something Fred and George gave me as a joke and I gave to Harry, nothing big … why don't you go and get changed?"

Hermione nodded, more because Ginny was staring pointedly at her dressing gown and then at Ron than anything else. She trounced upstairs, Ginny following her, mouth already open wide and spilling gossip about Angelina Johnson, who had recently signed with her Quidditch team, the Holyhead Harpies.

Craning his neck slightly to check that they had disappeared from earshot, Ron beckoned Harry into the lounge room.

"About the proposal, when do we do it?"

He leaned against the wall beside the Christmas tree, ruffling his unruly red locks with one hand and fingering the leaves of the tree with the other as he spoke.

"I have no idea," Harry replied. "I've just been trying to get through the day without looking suspicious. Your sister follows me around constantly; I couldn't find a minute to myself to practice. Not that I don't enjoy her company," he rectified quickly, as Ron gave him a funny look, "but I have absolutely no idea at all."

"Bloody hell," Ron replied, sliding to the floor with a thump and reaching inside his trouser pocket. He pulled out a tiny box, decorated with a big gold bow, and began to turn it over and over in his hands, barely registering the fact that Harry had slid down beside him, green eyes sparkling as he looked at his friend and grinned.

"We're hopeless with girls, both of us, aren't we?" he asked, before adding. "Even Twelve Failsafe Ways to Charm Witches can't help."

He too pulled a box from his pocket, slightly bigger but with much less embellishment. Giggles resounded from upstairs, telling the friends that Hermione was thoroughly entertained with another one of Ginny's stories, and that they had a while before the pair would come down for lunch.

"Why don't we just go for the usual, Ginny, I love you, will you marry me?" Harry asked finally, his eyes now tainted with desperation.

Ron nodded, letting out a sigh.

"Knowing me, I'm likely to even stuff that up. I'm a bloody idiot when it comes to women."

Harry laughed, flipping the box containing his precious ring up into the air and catching it, all too aware of exactly what this meant.

"Not still bemoaning Viktor Krum, are we?" he teased, even though he was fully aware that this supposed injustice was still high on Ron's list of detestation.

Ron shook his head, his shaggy red locks flying everywhere and smothering his face, but there was an unidentifiable tinge of some underlying emotion in his voice (perhaps it was defense), as he said, "no."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the sound of footsteps marching down the stairs and high pitched laughter. Quickly, he stuffed the ring back in his pocket, his hands were sweaty and clammy and he felt as though his heart was in his throat as he scrambled up and stepped back into the kitchen, hastily waving his wand to brighten his pale, petrified face.

"Ginny," he said, motioning to Ron to follow his example; his best friend was just standing there like a stunned mullet, glancing nervously around the room, his eyes focusing on everything except Hermione, "I have something to ask you."

"Fire away," she replied.

Harry bent his leg slightly, preparing to fall gracefully to one knee, when he was interrupted by Hermione's curious voice, her stare was aimed directly at his pocket, which was bulging and from which a lavish gold ribbon was dangling.

"What's that in your pocket?" she asked, her body caressing his slightly as she pulled out the box, her mouth widening in first shock and then surprise as she mouthed the word "Ron" over and over again.

"You're kidding me, right?" Hermione asked, tossing her now slightly more controlled curls over her shoulder and gaping at her boyfriend.

"No," Ron stuttered, it was obvious he wasn't entirely sure if the situation was in his favour or not.

"This is … I've been waiting for ages, but you get so defensive all the time …"

With an action highly reminiscent of their first ever kiss, Hermione jumped on Ron, her skirt flying up slightly, and kissed him passionately, unable to contain her excitement any longer. Harry and Ginny grinned, although Harry could not help but be slightly disappointed by the fact that his own proposal had been sidetracked by all the excitement. At one stage, Ron shot him an apologetic grin, which Harry returned, but nothing was said about his own plans for love and happiness and family, the three things he'd always craved more than anything else.

Eventually, the four sat down to Christmas dinner, the girls still cooing over Hermione's ring. Amidst a mouthful of roast potato (earning her a glare from the soon to be Mrs. Weasley), Ginny turned to Harry, who was allowing beef to slide down his throat along with nervousness and asked, "What was it you wanted to tell me before?"

Reaching into the depths of his pocket, he pulled out the box; it shone under the multicoloured lights that hang overhead.

"Surprise," he said.

And as Ginny kissed him, roast beef mingling with perfume and mashed potatoes and the scent of heaven, Harry couldn't help but grin as Ron and Hermione clapped and tears and emotion caught up with Hermione, beginning to streak down her cheeks.

"Maybe Twelve Failsafe Ways really did help after all?"


	14. Of Hufflepuffs and Scrooges

**Chapter 14**

**-Of Hufflepuffs and Scrooges-**

**AndromedaxTed**

_Merry Christmas to TheOriginalHufflepuff_

Andromeda rests a hand on her swollen stomach as she digs rapidly through the boxes, discarding tattered papers and notebooks, swollen and tainted with water and tears and with recollections. Waving her wand lazily, she banishes them across the room; they land neatly in the bin beside the Christmas tree, glittering with tinsel and baubles. Ted waves at her from his photo frame, which is also coated in a thick layer of Christmas decorations, his hands flapping wildly about his face like the wings of a bird.

Laughing slightly, Andromeda delves back into the boxes. Her mind, however, is not focused upon her sixth year potions textbook or those trashy Muggle romances her best friend once insisted she read, long before they both got caught up in the web of secrecy and decisions and family ties, but upon her future. Ted is working, his bookshop being carried along on a wave of Christmas shoppers, all naïve enough to think that a book of household spells and a few chocolates will satisfy their witch for the festive season. The room is caked in sunlight and reeks of the memories that ooze from photographs and letters. She doesn't even know why she's kept them so long.

She climbs to her, her knees aching from hours of being suppressed into the carpet and her back painful after days of slaving over the Muggle oven and the last of her boxes, hastily rescued from The Most Noble House of Bigotry and Lies the day that she escaped. Ted's parents are coming, and heck, _everything_has to be done the damn Muggle way, as though food actually tastes any different with magic or something. Andromeda waddles into the kitchen, the life inside her stomach preceding her as it pokes out form under layers of sweatshirts, the stitching charmed to last another year, and rips open the fridge, shuddering as the bare shelves stare unwaveringly back.

Of course, there couldn't _possibly_be any food when she's starving, could there?

Resisting the urge to floo to Ted's shop and demand that roast beef sandwich (it wouldn't be good for the baby, her little beacon of spirit and hope), Andromeda storms angrily back into the lounge room, her stomach rumbling. Chaos greets her, swooping across the room, in the form of scattered memories, some as treasured and precious as jewels and others as welcome as rust. Ink splotches, smeared by tears cried years ago, and frayed rolls of parchment are the only remnants of the letters and diary entries that pulled her through several lonely summers and freezing winters with _them._

_Dear Diary, _one such scrap reads.

_Today was Christmas Day. Bella was a bitch, as usual, but I met someone cute. It was kind of a horrible thing, really …_

Andromeda lets out a large chuckle at the childish words of her sixteen year old self, remembering the days of uncertain lust and innocent, yet passion-filled kisses. It's hard to think that these events, preserved in her untidy scrawl, were the beginnings of her life with her husband and that of the of child inside her.

Flicking the fragile parchments gently with a chipped fingernail, Andromeda's dark, heavily lidded eyes betray both curiosity and despair at the hazy remnants of her past. They fight to the death inside her, knives and swords both striking the enemy and missing their mark.

Eventually, curiosity wins out, and Andromeda begins to read.

**---**

"Don't, Bella," Andromeda snapped, as her sister stood behind her, hands pushing heavily on Andromeda's broad shoulders. Her lips curled with the promise of information as she glanced over her sister's shoulder at the scroll of parchment that was clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles were turning white with the force.

"Snappy, snappy," Bellatrix taunted, and Andromeda whipped around, her long black ponytail smashing Bellatrix in the face and causing her to laugh. "What did you do to irritate Mother _this_time?"  
"Nothing ok," Andromeda said, although her face, so like that of the girl hovering over her, said it was anything other than nothing. Her gaze drifted to the parchment, and Bellatrix noticed the words _"…betrothed to Lucius Malfoy."_

"That's all," Bellatrix spat, glaring at Andromeda. "You're sitting here, on fucking Christmas Eve, when everyone else is at dinner, because Mother wants you to marry someone respectable, so that you don't end up with scum like that stupid fucking Hufflepuff Mudblood, who actually had the nerve to reprimand me for using magic in the hallway."

Andromeda didn't bother to grace her sister with a response, instead just staring around the gloomy Slytherin common room, unable to avoid noticing exactly how out of place the tinsel and mistletoe that clung to the wall like mould looked. It certainly didn't suit the dingy, damp and musty aura of the place. She didn't understand why she _had_to marry him. Who was forcing her? She was two years from the damn right age anyway, and he didn't look like the type to enjoy long courtships. It was like he was crafted, the perfect look, with absolutely no emotion. Her Prince Charming with no personality at all.

"Just piss off Bella, Christmas would be a lot better without you," Andromeda replied, her temper getting the better of her. "If Lucius Malfoy is so fucking _perfect_and wonderful, then why don't _you _go and marry him. Better than me being subject to that torture at any rate!"

"And you really think Mother will allow that?" her sister snorted. "We all know what will happen, and we all know that's not what you want".

"What you think and what you know are two extremely different things."

With that, she threw the parchment onto the table, it fluttered gently to the floor, and Bellatrix's greedy eyes honed into its curlicues and murky blue ink.

"This is my life, not yours," she said, before marching out.

Scurrying down the corridor, Andromeda's thoughts seemed to resonate as deeply as her feet, which pounded against the marble. It wasn't like anyone could _make_her marry such a bastard. They couldn't make her marry anyone. Bella's words filtered through her mind, burning her and torturing her. They seemed to attack the very soul of her existence, vultures looking to feed on despair.

"_And you really think Mother will allow that?"_

The problem was, Bellatrix was right; she couldn't just marry some random stranger with no ties to a world where _Tojours Pur _reigned supreme. Tensions were high enough over the fact that Sirius had just been sorted into Slytherin, and the last thing her mother wanted was another rebellion. She wouldn't do it, because she would be crushed, crushed by the damn mother and the damn sister that had dumped all this crap upon her.

"Watch where you're going!"

"Shut up Bella," Andromeda screeched, continuing to stomp down the corridor. "I don't give a shit about Lucius fucking Malfoy."

"Lucius fucking Malfoy? You mean to say Lucius is shagging a member of his family? I always knew there was a reason I didn't like that guy." It was a boy who spoke, his voice was harsh and slightly raspy, but it couldn't hold a flame, let alone a candle to Bella's high-pitched whine that buzzed in your ears hours, heck, sometimes Andromeda thought it had to be days, after she accosted you.

Andromeda spun around, her leather boots (_"because you can't wear that disgusting Muggle filth," _her mother said of her tattered and infinitely more comfortable sneakers) squeaking noisily against the floor as she came face to face with a boy she vaguely recognised from her Transfiguration class."

"It's Christmas Eve, and the whole school is either at dinner, stuffing their faces with that _incredibly delicious _turkey or out having a snowball fight, and you're standing her, traipsing the corridors and shouting rather crude things about a former graduate and proud member of Slytherin House. How _exciting?"_ His voice reeked of sarcasm and hilarity, but she ignored it, figuring that accusations from random Gryffindors (because no other house was ever going to be reckless enough to be sardonic towards a Black) were not worth the hassle. Instead, she placed her hands on her hips, mysterious eyes open wide, and attempting to keep some sort irritated persona about her, she asked, "So what do you have against the turkey anyway? I'm sure the house elves have done a marvelous job preparing it."

"Oh, I'm sure they have. I'm a vegetarian, and I have been ever since I had the misfortune of watching my grandfather shoot his own duck for dinner with his damn gun."

"Oh, I see," she replied, spinning on her heel and preparing to walk away from this horribly insane person who seemed intent on sharing his life story. "Wait," she added, something suddenly clicking, "guns? You're a Muggleborn."

He nodded (and Andromeda couldn't help but notice that his face, though far from perfect, was rather endearing, even if his voice pissed her off), suddenly turning defensive. "And does that mean something to you, are you like that tight nosed Pureblood who snapped at me for reprimanding her about hexing first years?_ Dreadfully_ Christmassy that one was," he shuddered, "but you look a bit like her."

"That's my sister," Andromeda sighed, curiosity getting the better of her, or maybe it was just a way to avoid thinking of damn Malfoy and all that jazz, or even just his incredibly sexy nose. "She's …"

"… callous, cruel and a cold hearted bitch," he finished for her.

"Who are you? Most people, even stupid Gryffindors, for all their false bravado wouldn't insult a Black."

"I'm Ted Tonks. And you're a Black, I see. In Hufflepuff, you guys are described as a bitch, a princess and a silent butch. Care to explain which one of those illustrious titles befits you best?"

Screw curiosity, this guy was a bastard. A somewhat sexy bastard, but a bastard none the less.

"Care to explain why you're not at Christmas dinner yourself?" she countered, changing her voice to sweet and innocent.

"Doing jobs for Professor McGonagall. I should be on my way to see Filch, actually, but for some strange reason, I prefer your company."

"I'm honoured."

"You're such a Scrooge, by the sounds of it. Haven't you ever heard of Christmas cheer?"

"Of course I've heard-what's a Scrooge?"

"It's a Muggle fictional character, and he hates Christmas because he gets haunted by the ghosts of his past, even though ghosts don't exist in the Muggle world."

_Sounds like me, _Andromeda thought, _except my ghosts are sadly alive and fucking related to me._

"Andy," a voice hissed, cold and full of venom ready to shoot her down, "why are you talking to the Mudblood?"

"Shit," Andromeda whispered, hiding her face from Bellatrix, lest it betray the fact that talking to this stupid Hufflepuff wasn't _too_bad. "It's Bella."

Quickly, he grabbed her hands, entwining them with his own, chiseled hands. As Bellatrix loomed closer and closer, a murderous look making her already haughty features even more formidable, Ted leaned in, capturing her lips with his own. Glancing upwards, she couldn't see any mistletoe, or any other reason for him to do this, unless conversation was his way of making a grab, until she realised that he was doing it for her. He was doing this to deliberately piss Bellatrix off, and he should have been a Gryffindor, Andromeda decided, because an irate Bellatrix was nothing short of a death wish.

"Fuck," she swore, pulling away, and turning to face her sister with a heavy heart. Her arms were trembling, tiny hairs stood up along them and Ted was standing behind her, trying to look protective but failing, his facial expression was more that of a kitten facing a vicious dog.

"Andromeda, what was that? You're a Black, and now you're infested by that … that _filth."_

"He's not filth," Andromeda replied.

"Well," Bellatrix spat, "why did you let him kiss you? Fuck, he'd be a horrible kisser, being a Mudblood and all."

"He was not a horrible kisser, I enjoyed it." She had, now that she actually thought about it. He had very nice lips, to add to that incredibly sexy nose." And he's right about one thing, you're a Scrooge."

Bellatrix's eyes bulged and her voice was laced with quiet anger, the scariest type of all.

"Fine," she said. "Mother will be hearing about this."

As she stormed off, fading in the darkness at the end of the corridor, Andromeda turned to Ted and sighed. Normally, when two people's lips met, it ended in hugs and tears and declarations of love, but this time, it would not.

"I have to go," she mumbled, unable to look at _Ted?__Her new friend? Boyfriend? Random Hufflepuff she would never meet again?_

"And," she added, on a final whim as her mind started to whir with possible ways to avoid the wave that was going to crash upon her with Bellatrix's news, "I'm not 'Silent Butch,' I'm Andromeda."

**---**

Andromeda lifts her head from the parchment, her mind swirling with memories of the past. They are nothing more than hazy remnants now, at the time, kissing a boy in front of Bella had seemed such a real, invigorating issue, and now, they had been through so much more. As she thought about his, one hand clutched to her stomach again and the other around the parchment, more creased and crumpled than ever.

Just as she began to contemplate that roast beef sandwich again (Ted wouldn't buy her one anyone, damn him being a vegetarian) , the man in question came spinning out of the fireplace, his clothes soiled with the snow that drifted down the window panes outside. He leaned over to kiss her, patting her stomach gently as he did.

"I'm stuffed," Ted muttered. "Had a bastard of a day at the shop, customers are so damn rude."

His voice is as harsh as it was four years ago, but now; it strikes her as gorgeous, not irritating. Waving the peace of parchment in his face, Andromeda chuckles.

"Remember this?"

Ted's eyes greedily scan the parchment until they reached his opinion on Lucius Malfoy. "Of course I remember," he said. "I'm lucky you're a nice Slytherin, otherwise I wouldn't be here. Our meeting was anything but normal, wasn't it?"

Andromeda nods, leaning in for another kiss.

"Obviously, but it was worth it."

Merry Christmas Silent Butch."

"Merry Christmas Ted, and my name's not Silent Butch, it's Andromeda."


	15. Scribbles

**Chapter 15**

**-Scribbles-**

**Petunia & Lily**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Heart_

Lily leaned over the table, her vibrant red locks swishing across her face as she grabbed the purple crayon and continued to colour her Christmas card.

"Do you think Tuney will like it?" she asked her mother, who was collapsed in a chair at the end of the table, one eye focused on Lily and her reindeer drawing, the other on her gossip magazine, where she was catching up on the latest scandals.

"Of course," her mother replied, glancing up from the magazine and gazing skeptically at Lily's drawing. Her reindeer resembled something from a science fiction movie, and the brown crayon seemed to leek over the edges of her drawing like chocolate. "It's lovely," she added, leaning over and patting Lily on the back, "and Petunia will love it."

Lily grinned, a smile gracing her already charming face as she turned back to her drawing and clenched the red crayon fiercely in her hand. Quickly, she added a bright red love heart, before scrawling her name behind it. Random tangents of red flew out of the shape's boundaries, re-arranging themselves across the page. Drawing was just not one of Lily's talents. Holding it proudly in front of her mother, Lily smiled again, and said happily, "Tuney's going to love it."

On Christmas Day, Lily bounded downstairs, and headed straight for the tree, wrenching her card from its position, tucked away under the branches, and stuffing it into Petunia's hands as she reached for her presents.

"Merry Christmas Petunia," she said brightly, fiddling with the glittery silver bow in her hair as she did so. Petunia looked at her present disdainfully, her beady little eyes absorbing everything wrong with it, and none of the love it was made with. They scanned the blue sky, patchy where the crayon had faltered, and the squiggles that were supposed to represent reindeer, but were closer to a shaggy dog shaking itself dry. "Do you like it?"

"Lily," Petunia said, with a rather patronising voice for a ten year old, "you couldn't even colour in your heart properly. Look, the colour's everywhere."

Her sister nodded, unable to keep the hurt from flooding her exquisite green eyes. "But it's pretty tuney; I made you a reindeer and everything."

Petunia shook her head, so that both sisters' heads were flying crazily about.

"That's a reindeer?" she asked in disbelief.

"Yeah."

"That's not a reindeer, Lily, that's a scribble, just like your stupid heart's a big pink scribble."

Tears welled up in Lily's eyes, held back only by her determination not to cry in front of her sister.

"But I tried so hard, Tuney," she protested. "Don't you like it even a little bit? Because …"

Lily's words were cut short with a groan.

"Just take your stupid little heart and go Lily, just go. I don't want it, you couldn't even colour it in properly."

"I tried Tuney, I really did try," Lily sobbed, the first tears beginning to streak her face. "I just wanted to make you something pretty for Christmas."

"Well learn to colour," Petunia snapped, throwing the card across the table. "Take it and go."

Lily snatched the card off the table, and ran outside, holding the card suspended above the rubbish bin. She sobbed, harder and harder, as she began to tear at the flimsy card, her creation slowly becoming nothing more than tatters of paper upon the bottom of the metal bin. All her hard work, destroyed by a few harsh words and the flurry of fingertips.

"I just wanted Tuney to like it," she bawled, feeling as though her heart was in as many pieces as the one she had drawn and destroyed.


	16. A Sign of Ignorance

**Chapter 16**

**-A Sign of Ignorance-**

**Regulus**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Quaffle_

Regulus sits at the dining room table, his back rigid and aching and from hours of decorum and proper behaviour for the 'cherished son.' He knows he should be thankful not to be Sirius, because everyone knows that the insane ones die first and are torn apart by the hatred that lies inside them, nothing more than a steak colliding with angry jaws and a rumbling stomach, but at least they go out with a bang. Regulus, on the other hand, is left behind to do nothing but sit and gently stroke the Quaffle he was gifted for Christmas. The room, ornate yet reeking of dust and mould, is shadowy; his parents are asleep, their snores echoing throughout the vicinity and the only light leeks from the end of his wand, a stagnant golden firework.

Somewhere in the gloom of the kitchen, Kreacher is potting around, Regulus can hear his groans as he scraps away the leftovers of Christmas dinner, undoubtedly salvaging what little he can for his own dinner among his rags, sodden with years of mildew and cold sweat. He can feel the soft leather of the Quaffle, discordant under his callous fingers as he rubs his hand along it, rhythm is the best relief he can find. Everything looks different from here, the chair typically granted to the oldest son. He is the loved one, now.

The Quaffle is just as much a sign of ignorance as it is pride and love. His parents know nothing of Quidditch beyond the fact that their son is going to make them proud, they cannot even distinguish between Chasers and Seekers. Regulus doubts they even care about the game at all, only about the honour that their son will bestow upon the Black family name when Slytherin wins the Quidditch Cup. He wishes that once, just once, he could receive that radio he spotted on one of the rare family outings to Diagon Alley for Christmas, something that was not redolent of expectations and family conceit.

Stretching slightly to alleviate some of the attention in his unyielding back, Regulus scrambles from his chair and tiptoed into the kitchen, the Quaffle clutched tightly in his pale hands, a white hue spreading from the dry skin that covered the knuckle outwards.

"Master Regulus," Kreacher says as he comes through the door, bowing. His nasal voice disturbs the young man every time, it echoes hardship and despair. He remembers when the voice was directed at Sirius, harsh words spitting from the elf's mouth like bullets from a Muggle gun, easily able to kill. It was Sirius who taught him about guns, their tale etched into a Muggle newspaper stolen from a bin outside and hoarded. Its pictures scared him, they looked like corpses.

"Kreacher," he replies, sinking to the floor, which is grimy and drowning beneath layers of dust; Regulus doubts it has been caked in shining sunlight for years. He tosses the Quaffle into the air, his heavily lidded eyes trained on it as .it curves across the room like a rainbow painting itself across the sky. Only this rainbow is tarnished not just by the dark, but by something much more sinister: family.

He loves his family; it's close to impossible to abhor those who created you (he thinks that Sirius could manage it, because it comes with the insane Gryffindor label), but they are suffocating, where Sirius was dragged into the deepest pits of insanity, Regulus is being dragged into a mute, fathomless existence of conformity.

"Can I get you anything?" Kreacher asks, his skin is much like that of his mistresses, sagging and wrinkled, a slightly loose coat that has never been ironed.

"Some of those mince pies would be great, thanks Kreacher."

"Certainly master." Kreacher watches for a moment as Regulus flicks the Quaffle again, catching it clumsily as his hands automatically reach for a Snitch, and then shuffles across the kitchen, his feet scraping against the filth that no amount of scrubbing has ever been able to penetrate.

Regulus watches, filled with a silent pity as Kreacher stokes the fire with his poker; smoke billows throughout the tiny room, flooding both Regulus' nostrils and Kreacher's small bedroom, to which the door is slightly ajar. A moment later, he scurries back towards his master, the mince pies born loftily in front of him; the greatest Christmas gift a house-elf can give is obedience and whatever their masters want.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he says again, his voice seems to float about the room, drifting towards the ground like one the snowflakes Regulus can see gracing the other side of the window pane. His left hand reaches for the tantalising smell while his right strikes the Quaffle again; it has fallen, abandoned, to his side in favour of his pondering.

"Kreacher," he says suddenly, "go to the other end of the kitchen and stand there, facing me."

Kreacher looks affronted at such a suggestion, and Regulus can see his taut cheeks widening, ready to protest, but then he just nods, his head aimed directly at the ground, and mutters, "as you wish, Master Regulus."

Regulus faces him, the Quaffle born in front of him. Slowly, he tosses it, watching it curve through the air. Motioning to Kreacher, he says, "Catch it."

Kreacher's spindly arms, frail from so many years of overuse, stretch up, and suddenly, the ball drops straight into his hands, which shudder in shock.

"Now throw it back. Come on, we'll play a game."

Maybe, just maybe, this sign of ignorance can be turned into a memory of Christmas cheer for one diminutive house-elf and his master.


	17. Believing

**Chapter 17**

**-Believing-**

**Luna**

_Merry Christmas cupid-painted-blind_

Bare feet grace frozen ground as Luna runs, dirty blonde hair flailing like a kite in a fierce storm, across the yard.

"Look Daddy," she yells, skidding to a halt under the tree. Snowflakes drift gently through the air, burying themselves in her hair and her feet burn as they grate against bitter ice, they are already red-raw and glowing, but she doesn't notice. Xenophilius, framed by the open door, grins at his daughter as she fingers the tree branches, searching for something only she can see. The Santa hat Luna stuffed onto his head during dinner hangs jauntily over one eye, obscuring his vision slightly as he treads across the yard, caked in a ferocious white. "I found some Nargles."

Her face is awash with excitement as she nods her head towards the branches, her beady eyes raking in a treasure only she can see.

"Marvelous, Luna," Xenophilius says, joining his daughter, hidden from the outside world by bushes. Insanity hides uncertainty and fear for the world and its people, and these branches hide believers from cynics. "Simply marvelous. Where are these magnificent creatures?"

Luna points quickly to a leaf, the last rays of a Christmas sun shining brightly upon it. Xenophilius stares at it, hazy greens and whites flooding his vision and invading his mind.

"It's real, isn't it?" Luna asks, turning around to glance at her father. "It's really there. I've never seen a Nargle before." Her glassy blue orbs shine with joy as she strokes the leaf, her fingers gently caressing her new discovery.

"Of course it's real. If you believe, why shouldn't anything be real?"


	18. We're Brothers

**Chapter 18**

**-We're Brothers-**

**Bill, Charlie, Percy & George**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Firewhiskey_

**Major hugs from your author: **I have to thank you all for being so nice and making me cheer. This started as nothing more than a Christmas challenge and a few fics for my friends, and now it's become so popular that I've hit 100 reviews. Thanks. Just thanks, and I hope you enjoy the last few chapters as much as you have the previous ones. **:D**

Bill drew a long mouthful of Firewhiskey from the bottle, dragging it down into this throat and submerging it, the potent taste burned him, and he shuddered slightly as he turned to George.

"This is worse than dying, isn't it?" his brother lamented, glancing her nervously around the table, encrusted in crumbled biscuits, old newspapers and Christmas candles.

"What makes you say that?" Percy asked sharply, motioning for his brother to hand him the bottle. It was rare for his words to sound so harsh, after so much betrayal and regret some things were harder to repair than others, and Percy's place in the family was one of those.

"Think about it," George replied. "We're here, grieving and aching for someone who will never come back, and he's up there, with not a care in the world anymore." His voice stank of tears, falling from the sky like raindrops, yet there was not a trace of sadness on his face, just the slender streaks that betrayed confusion and despair.

Charlie, who had been lounging at the end of the table, the front legs of his chair suspended off the ground, glared at George.

"How dare you say that George, how dare you?"

Eight eyes met in the middle of the table, all yearning to reach out and rescue each other, all trapped behind livid stares.

"Look at Andromeda," he continued, his hands flapped about his face, narrowly missing the bottle of Firewhiskey that stood in the middle of the table, lost amidst rearing emotion and flying words. "She's lost her husband, her daughter, her son in law, a sister – even if they didn't care much for each other – and now she's left to bring up Teddy on her own. What have you lost? You've lost one brother George. Isn't that nothing compared to the tragedies of others?"

Charlie's chair, which had crept closer to the table, allowed its front legs to swing back into the air, creaking under the weight of human flesh and regret. Tears began to grace his face, Bill watched silently, wanting nothing more to lean out and touch his brother, though he refrained. For the first time he felt a pang of remorse, something other than suffocation by unnamed grief, though he hid it quickly with another gulp of Firewhiskey, before waving the bottle at his brothers.

"Look at Harry," Charlie added, motioning towards the lounge room, where Harry and Ginny sat, curled up on the couch, talking quietly. "He's had his entire life destroyed by this shit, and yet you're the one wallowing."

He leaned over, snatching the Firewhiskey from his older brother, and draining it.

'Eurgh," he muttered, as his throat started to screech in complaint. Looking up from the bottle, its tattered label the victim of clumsiness when it came to pouring the scorching liquid, Charlie turned to face George, who was hovering between denial and accord.

"How could you say that," his brother yelled, and the house, with its air of long forgotten Christmas cheer, in the form of gravy stained plates and haphazard decorations pitted against the simple green of the tree, seemed to stop and wake in amazement, its arms stretching in rejoice as George Weasley finally broke his hazy vigil.

"How could you?" he repeated, much quieter, his voice laced with a longing for understanding. "You don't know how much he meant to me, how much I miss him, how close I've come to …"

"You wanted to commit suicide?" Percy asked, blinking rapidly to keep the tears welled up beyond his chocolate brown eyes from flooding him. "Why didn't you say something George? We would have helped you."

For a minute, all preconceived formalities fell apart as Percy, the brother who had struggled to realign himself in this complicated jigsaw puzzle of family ties and mourning, dragged his body across the table and patted George on the arm. He could not help but shudder; his family had shied away from intimacy for so long that every brush of fingertips and skin, whether accidental or filled with emotion was unnerving.

"You lost him too," George spluttered, the tears plunging into the collar of his shirt and dribbling along the fabric. He quickly waved his wand, sucking the puddles back into oblivion. "He was everyone's, not just mine, and I didn't want to make it worse for you."

"We're brothers, George, us and Ron and even Fred." Bill ignored the fact that his brother's tears became less like rain and more like a fully fledged storm. "You're ours too."

"Even if you are here being a moody little arse like Ron was around Hermione," Charlie joked, though his attempt fell slightly flat amongst the bloodshot eyes and sodden faces. "At least we know that Firewhiskey helps everything."

"Shut up Charlie. You're not helping."

"Well, he's not damn planning to kill himself anymore, is he?" 

Bill and Percy's eyes bored into Charlie as he shrugged, his shoulders informing his brothers that he was both apologetic and unabashed.

"Look George," Percy said, "you don't get it, do you? Crying isn't going to bring him back. You can't resurrect the dead. He wanted to go; he said that at least if he died that night, he'd be a hero, dying for a cause, like Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon. You can't argue with something like that."

"Have you ever noticed," George replied bitterly, "that most heroes end up dead? His wanting to be a hero still doesn't mean he's here for Christmas, does it? He could have survived, could have found a way to live and still be a hero, and no, he had to bloody die." He glared around the table, before adding as an afterthought, "Pass me the Firewhiskey Charlie."

Silently, Charlie handed over the bottle, feeling the shiny glass and soaked label slide beneath his calloused fingers. He glanced around. Four faces, tarnished with grief glanced back, eyes rotating wildly in their sockets.

"Fred's here for Christmas," Percy said, "he's here in spirit, and it's disrespectful to his memory if we don't move on." He thumped a clenched fist against the table, the sound echoed about their heads. "And for now, Charlie's right. Firewhiskey helps everything. Trust me, I should know."

Bill's wand swished through the air, decanting the Firewhiskey into four separate glasses.

"To Fred," he said, handing them out.

"To Fred."

(Tears still dripped down George's face, Percy's back was still rigid, proving he was scared of closeness, Charlie still had to refrain from cracking jokes, and Bill still shuddered every time the Firewhiskey shot down his throat, but life went on).

(They would be okay).


	19. What Went Wrong?

**Chapter 19**

**-What Went Wrong?-**

**Narcissa**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Patronus_

It's Christmas, and it's damn cold, and he's out fighting again. It's every night these days, the war is enclosing upon their sheltered life, and even if it's never named, it hovers – in Lucius' empty chair at the dinner table, in his side of the bed, which in his absence is no longer crumpled – haunting her. Sometimes, she cannot help but think that lavish jewels and the promise of a bright future, emerging through the haze of rotting bodies and jets of light, is not enough. Narcissa never voices these thoughts though, because she is Mrs. Malfoy, wife of Lucius Malfoy, and her name dictates utmost honour and respect, _who cares if a few people have to die to earn it?_

Christmas presents linger under the tree; they are Lucius'. Draco opened his hours ago, and is now sleeping (Thank god for that, because if she had to deal with a howling infant on top of all this she thinks she would become insane, nothing more than a carbon copy of Bellatrix, who she knows is out there in the thick of it, numb hands, bitten by the cold draughts that circle outside and swoop above the fallen, brandishing a wand joyfully, paralysing those who dare fight her). Narcissa doubts he'll be home to open them tonight.

She catches her reflection in the mirror as she stands up, straightening her skirt and calling for Kreacher to remove the empty cup, its base stained with coffee she could not bring herself to taste. Ice-blonde hair, eyes that glitter like stones in the sunlight and fashions from the best parts of town, certainly not from Diagon Alley, breeding place of rats and abode of Mudbloods and scum, stares back. The eyes of the reflection are hardened; any happiness has been painted over by the brush of lonely nights and terrifying dreams in which her husband is dead (and killed by her traitorous cousin, usually, but it's not like she actually wants to dwell on _that). _Just for a moment, Narcissa steps out of herself, looking down on the Ice-Queen that she has become and the voice of her past, of a young, naïve Narcissa Black, pokes her in the back.

_What went wrong?_

(and when is Lucius coming home?)

Sliding into bed that night, her silken nightgown gently caressing coarse sheets, Narcissa knows that he will be hours. War waits for no man, even if it is man that creates it. Sleep will not come tonight; instead she stares out the window, watching the snowflakes quickly race each other to the window sill, before melting. Her chest rises and falls, in sync with her heavy breathing as she gazes listlessly around the room; eyes seized wide open, as though she is afraid to blink.

The battle will be over by now, secrecy and lies control the world, the Order is crumbling, just as was always hoped, there can't be enough of them to fight for long anymore. She's surprised her cousin's lasted as long as he has; he's too insane, too irrational, and too hot headed. Narcissa can imagine the scene perfectly, the streets splattered, not with blood but with the tears of those close to the dead. Why they had to fight on bloody Christmas Day is beyond her, she can almost taste and smell the gut-wrenching ache of those left behind to perish. Christmas should be a time for family, and here she is, alone.

Lifting her slightly, she shudders as a cool breeze floats through the window, dragging the smell of overcooked potatoes and plum pudding from the neighbours through the room. It is followed by a shining silver peacock, its head held high in a feeble attempt to look majestic. Narcissa holds out a hand, and it brushes past, leaving nothing but an eerie feeling and goose bumps to line her arm.

Lucius' voice echoes, strong and clear, throughout the room.

"_I am safe. Be home tomorrow. Wish Draco a Merry Christmas for me."_

Words alone can't ease her soul, as furrowed as the bed sheets in which she is entangled, but it helps. Narcissa can imagine more scenes now: the gentle sliding of masks over sweaty faces and the whispered remarks on victory, no longer is her husband drowning in a pool of blood.

Somewhere along the line, everything may have gone wrong, but tonight, at Christmas time, something is going right.


	20. Gryffindors Don't Get Butterflies

**Chapter 20**

**-Gryffindors Don't Get Butterflies-**

**NevillexLuna**

_Merry Christmas to Witblogi._

**Merry Christmas Becky: **This chapter is also for Crayon Lover, who, among others, has been requesting something fluffy. Hope you enjoy it, and look out for frequent updates as I try to get this done by lunchtime Christmas Eve, even though I know that is incredibly unlikely to happen.

"Hello there."

Neville spun rapidly around, the hairs on his arms sticking up in surprise and his eyes colliding with Luna's slivery blonde tresses.

"Oh, hello Luna," he said candidly, returning to running his fingers along the racks, scanning hungrily for something to buy his grandmother. "Doing some last minute Christmas shopping?" he asked, ignoring that stupid fluttering feeling in his stomach as she leaned over him, her fingertips brushing gently across his skin.

_Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies_, he repeated to himself over and over again.

"Oh yes," she said. "I want to get Daddy some new robes to wear when we go Crumple Horned Snorcack hunting this summer." Gesturing outside, where snow rushed to the ground, streaming down the windows and racing to the ground, she added, almost as a half-hearted thought, "It's cold out there." As though to illustrate a point she tugged on her scarf, the same hideous colour as the radish earrings that dangled from her earlobes.

"I'm buying my grandmother something. Perhaps a scarf?"

Looking disdainfully at Luna's scarf, before making a quick attempt to hide his feelings, Neville gestured out into the freezing cold street, where last minute Christmas shoppers scurried along the street, heads bowed to combat the driving wind.

"Actually," he said, "Care for a Butterbeer?"

Luna nodded and a twinge of something unrecognisable crossing her face. Together they wandered through the doorway of the boutique, their bodies pressing together slightly. Once again, Neville felt the twinge and he shuddered slightly, recognising it as the same feeling he had the night of the Yule Ball.

_Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies._

"Are you looking forward to Christmas?" Neville asked, his hands clasped around his steaming Butterbeer.

"Yes," Luna replied, "Daddy and I are going to have dinner in the backyard, with the Nargles."

"But won't that be cold?"

"A little."

Neville couldn't help but laugh as Luna grinned curiously at him, obviously unable to understand why _normal _witches and wizards found sitting in the freezing cold snow strange.

"What about you?" she asked. "Are you going home for Christmas?" It was an innocent comment, and yet Neville felt his stomach quiver, and not with ... (was it nerves? infatuation? normality?)

"Yeah," he mumbled, "I'm staying with my Gran."

Luna surveyed him over the top of her cup, shiny blue orbs unfaltering as they seemed to bore through him.

"Did your parents die, like my mother?" It was an innocent comment, and yet Neville felt his stomach quiver, and not with ... (was it nerves? infatuation? normality?)

"Not really," he replied, choosing his words carefully. "They … they, oh stuff it … they got tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange, and they're in St Mungos."

"That's horrible," Luna said, leaning over and touching his arm gently, and then pulling back as she felt him flinch.

_Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies, _he repeated to himself again, even if it wasn't really the most appropriate time.

"That's why Dumbledore's Army means so much to you isn't it?"

"Yeah," Neville said, nodding his head slightly. "I don't really want to talk about it; I'm not really ready for people to know yet."

Luna drained the last of her Butterbeer, seemingly oblivious to the fact that some of it was trickling down her chin.

"Shall we go and buy your grandmother a scarf? I'd be happy to help you."

"No thanks Luna," Neville said, with yet another glance to the hideous scarf that was draped around her neck, flooding her in material the colour of a pumpkin. "But thanks for listening."

She leaned over the table, her hair dangling in the sugar bowl, and Neville could not help but lean in too, anticipating what was going to happen, with both delight and horror.

_Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies, Gryffindors don't get butterflies._

The kiss was short, and yet her breath lingered upon Neville's face long after Luna's lips were pulled back.

"What was that?" Neville asked, a look of surprise flitting across his face.

He thought it was pretty much impossible to see Luna Lovegood's face flush, and there it was happening, right in front of him.

"You looked so lost, and you reminded me of a Crumple Horned Snorcack, Daddy says it's common for them to look bewildered and you're cute."

"You kissed me just I look like a Crumple … cute?" Neville said, reeling in disbelief.

Luna nodded serenely, seeming unperturbed by the situation, "Daddy always says that love and happiness makes the world go round."

Neville grinned, touching his lips gently and shaking his head at her, his hair dancing in the icy winter wind that leaked through a gap in the window.

"Do you …," he said, unable to believe he was really asking this, "Do you get this funny feeling in your stomach?"

"Of course," Luna said, "it just means the Wracklespurts are dancing in there."

And as they exited the Three Broomsticks, conversation drifting easily in the air between them, Neville couldn't help but think, _maybe butterflies aren't so bad after all …_


	21. He Was My Equal

**Chapter 21**

**-He Was My Equal-**

**-Albus & Aberforth**

_Merry Christmas to something-like-love._

**Challenge Details: **This was written for a challenge set by cupid-painted-blind, in which you had to pick three objects to include in a fic. The objects I chose were a bottle of whiskey, an old book and a silver coin.

He turns up on Christmas Eve, his eyes fixated on his shoes and his auburn beard hiding any emotion that spikes his thin, flat mouth, with a simple nod and the request of a Firewhiskey. It's got to be way after midnight, sometime in those hazy hours that linger between the beginning of the morning and dawn. Aberforth watches from behind glassy eyes as his brother collapses at a table, bottle clenched in one hand and head rested on the other. Damn, he's only thirty-one, and look at him, he's dying.

A book is slipped from his pocket, the pages are frayed with the ghosts of family and friends, Aberforth recognises it from here. Albus was always into the idea that love ruled supreme, and his brother thought it kind never to shatter his fairytale. It was all an illusion, absolutely ridiculous, Aberforth thinks, as he traces his sodden cloth over the glass again and again; repetition is soothing, only someone who believed in the "greater good" could believe that rubbish, and_shut up Abe, you're only jealous because he neglected you in favour of the world. _

This isn't Christmas, it's damn hell.

"What brings you here, Albus?" he asks, his words are clipped and his voice falters. It's a mark of how much their relationship has changed, because fourteen years ago Aberforth would have snapped and torn shreds off his brother with words and used that incredibly pathetic nickname, Al.

"I want a drink." Albus holds up his Firewhiskey as though it is the saviour of the world, but he cannot help but allow his eyes to drift down towards his photo album. Aberforth notices this, and snatches it quickly (Albus never had any physical skills; the only lifting he ever did was pick up those damn heavy books he and Gellert were obsessed with).

"Want a drink, or depressed about the fact that it's Christmas and all you have is memories?" There, now their usual relationship is back in the picture.

Aberforth flips through the photo album. Gellert, Gellert, Gellert. Ariana, in all her innocent and heartbreaking glory. Gellert.

"You're wallowing."

"Give it back, Abe." Albus' voice is worn, and it creeps Aberforth out, because he was once so full of life.

"You do know Gellert loved you, right?"

"Just give it back." He's resisting the truth. Aberforth can't help but sigh, because this is typical Albus, even photos of the damn German sneak who killed his sister are more important than his brother.

"He loved you, simply because he could use you, and you're damn gullible, and seriously Al, you need to get over it. He's gone."

Albus leans over the table, the very tips of his auburn beard dangling in his Firewhiskey, and stares at Aberforth, who is still clutching the dirty rag tightly in his fist.

"You don't understand Aberforth." Any hint of candidness is gone, and Aberforth receives the same look as his brother gives students, because Albus is so formal and _he treats his students as well as he treats you._

"He was my equal."

There is a sharp pause, the space between words spewing from mouths filled only with ragged breaths and the swigging of Firewhiskey.

"Merry Christmas."

Albus slides a single silver coin across the table, shiny and glittering in the moonlight that fought its way through the dusty windows (Aberforth reasons that he should probably do some cleaning), and marches out, with not a single look back.

There is so much Aberforth wants to say, so many unspoken conversations that shouldn't be lingering in the air like they are, and yet he does not have the courage to call his brother back. It's one of the reasons Albus made a better Gryffindor than him.

**--**

(Two weeks later, Albus returns, but he leaves the book at Hogwarts this time).


	22. Time

**Chapter 22**

**-Time-**

**George/Katie**

_Twelve Fics of Christmas Prompt: Phoenix_

**Author's Note:**Sorry about the long wait for updates, I've been on holidays and spending time with my family, doing the typical Christmas/summer holiday things. There are only three chapters left, and hopefully you enjoy them. This is my last prompt for the challenge, and I'm pleased to say I'm finished; it's such a relief after six weeks to know I only have two more late Christmas presents to write. Also, I know this is no longer canon, but I follow the Sober Universe, which is fully explained on my profile, for those interested.

Everything's blurred these days. Everything's real, and yet it seems so fake, so different to what it once was. Katie and George are suspended, and time is rushing along beneath them. Everything's changing, and they are still the same.

Katie realises this as she wakes up next to him, the Sunday before Christmas (or least that's what she thinks, because time flies when you're in love, and it's impossible to keep up, unless you have one of those jumbly jet things Muggles use), and prepares to brave another day of Weasley chaos.

It's the second Christmas since … since Fred died, and yet it almost seems like it's been forever. Old barriers were broken in the days following the funeral, and new walls resurrected. Christmas carols echo throughout the house, even though it's what, four days until Christmas and six o'clock in the morning? And then she remembers, and she nudges George, and he groans.

"Wake up sleepyhead," she teases, pushing her fingers gently against his ribs and feeling the contours of his muscled chest. He laughs, but it still seems kind of hollow, and Katie wonders exactly how long it's been since George _really _cracked a smile, not just one forced for her benefit or someone else's.

Katie tickles her boyfriend again, smiling cheerfully at him as he blinks, eyes opening and closing at the speed of light.

"Get up," she says.

"What-?"

"We're decorating the Christmas tree, and as much as I'd rather stay right here with you, I don't think your mother would appreciate that much and I think you would rather keep your body intact, am I right?"

George nods, rolling onto his side to avoid her merciless fingers. His lips are taut, but the ghost of laughter claws at his face, and Katie can see she's close to getting him to smile. Slowly, he climbs from the bed, his feet gently chafing against the plush carpet.

"When you put it that way …"

The old George, Katie remembers with a pang (not of regret for the past but for the coming future), would have made several sarcastic remarks and been teary with laughter by now. This George is flat. She loves him, because isn't love unconditional, but lately, it's starting to seem like love is not enough.

She holds out her hand, beckoning him downstairs into the deepest pits of Weasley family chaos. They stumble off the bottom step, her foot catching the fraying edge of carpet and sending her flying into George's arms. Her boyfriend catches her, gently pushing Katie up so she can stand on her own two legs, and she's about to thank him, in a way that's a little more physical than words, when she is interrupted by Teddy, screeching.

"Teddy Remus Lupin, is that toilet paper stuffed in your fist?" Harry asks, giving his godson a disapproving look. "Morning, George, Katie. I take it you slept through Teddy's screaming fit this morning?"

"Screaming fit?" Katie said, taking a few steps away from George to talk to Harry. "I thought he was getting better at dealing with the fact that Andromeda leaves him here once a week."

"He is," Harry said, "this screaming fit was because of the fact that it's still three sleeps until Father Christmas comes."

"Oh."

"Yeah, that's all …"

"Ready for breakfast George?" she asked, turning back to him, "I'm star-what the?"

George looked up at her, unabashed. Teddy had stranded an entire roll of toilet paper around his neck, turning him into a mummy. He was drowning in Gilderoy Lockhart's Ultra Plush White Toilet Tissue (Mrs. Weasley insisted on buying his latest business adventure, no matter what anyone said about the true nature of its endorser).

"That reminds me of the time you told me how you tried to lock Percy into a pyramid and turn him into a mummy," Katie laughed, as George pushed the white fabric from his eyes. "Fred thought that was hilarious."

She hadn't meant to bring it up, this was Christmas and wounds may be healing but the cracks still had to be fully repaired. Shooting a quick glance at George, she was pleased to see he'd barely changed at all; he still had that same look on his face, that one that oozed "I heard but don't really want to think about it."

And then he laughed; he burst out, his body shaking with the effort of releasing so many pent up emotions. "That was a good one," he stuttered between breaths, and Katie looked at him in shock.

"Are you okay, George?" she asked gently.

"I still think that the Age Line was better, but man that tomb prank was hilarious." Tears of hilarity began to rack his lean body, one would have thought he was whole, not someone who'd lost half himself and then an ear as well.

Perhaps, just perhaps, George could be reborn, like a phoenix. Perhaps, just perhaps, all he needed was time.

And for now, Katie realised, as George's mirth slowly subsided, they at least had a little boy to look after and a Christmas tree to decorate.


	23. Winners and Losers

**Chapter ****23**

**-****Winners and Losers-**

**The Black Sisters**

_Merry Christmas to __BonniDolle_

Three girls stand in a row. The first girl is petite and blonde, with striking red lips that can't quite lend themselves to a smile. The second is haughty and stunning; fiery passion burns in her heavily lidded eyes, smouldering away like a conflagration. The third, ah now _there _is a mystery. Lips like the first, she has, and yet a grin spreads across her face as easily as butter on toast. Eyes like the second rest beneath her fringe, but they are lifeless, devoid of hunger.

"Smile," Druella Black rasps, clouds of smoke billowing around her as she inhales from the limp cigar that is wedged between her fingers. Ash falls to the ground, fallen heroes whose lives are controlled by the woman who breathes them. It's nothing more than just another Christmas to her, as she waits for the camera shutter to blink like an eye.

"For heaven's sake Narcissa, remove that ridiculous pout. Bella, push your hair away from your eyes. And Andromeda, would you please stop slouching.

The first and second girls are in the foreground when the photograph is finally done; the third girl left to fade into the background. A clear division lies between winners and losers – those who shine and are designed for admiration, and the one who isn't. The third girl has been left stranded, abandoned on the wrong side of the line.

"Narcissa, whatever are we to do with you? Christmas presents come after the photos," Druella snapped, and all three sisters quickly tuned her out.

--

Years later, when Azkaban has hollowed Bellatrix's once piercing orbs and Narcissa's lips only look tantalising when she wants something desperately, Andromeda looks back and thinks that, perhaps, she is the winner after all.


	24. 5 Presents Remus Lupin Never Received

**Chapter 24**

**-Five Presents Remus Never Received**

**(and one he did)-**

**Remus**

_Merry Christmas to Padfootatheart_

When Remus was six, and, despite being far more advanced than many children his own age, still believed in Santa, he wrote a letter and sent it off with his father's owl. His father always said that wishing solved nothing, but Remus didn't quite believe that, and quickly proceeded to scrawl a few sentences on some tattered parchment.

_Dear Santa,_

_My name is Remus Lupin, and I've been very good this year. I think the thing I want the most is some friends, because Dad won't let me play with any of the other kids in our neighbourhood for some reason. And I would love some chocolate too please. _

_From Remus_

_PS. This is my dad's owl, and she's a bit old and blind, so if she accidentally flies into something, don't worry. _

Of course, Santa never replied, and Remus spent most of Christmas Day making excuses, until he realised the truth: Santa didn't exist. He still wished for friends though, wished that he could scramble into his mittens and throw snowballs with them, no matter how many times his father said no.

**--- **

Remus gave up on wishing after that, because obviously it was futile. He had friends now anyway, he was a Marauder. Every year, Sirius would give him a Quidditch magazine and a box of chocolates, ignoring Remus' protests that he didn't even like Quidditch, James would give him some useless object from a joke shop that was usually wrecked by Sirius two weeks later, and Peter would give him a scarf or jumper, always the testament to his mother's latest knitting pattern. The presents were never exactly what he wanted, but they came from friends, and thinking back to that letter he had sent to "Santa," all those years ago, he guessed his wish had come true.

He was thirteen this year, and definitely less naïve, but he'd come to the conclusion that even if wishing did nothing for him, it was worth a try. James, Sirius and Peter were being so hopelessly stubborn about this whole "Animagi thing," and he was worried. They were putting their lives, their futures at Hogwarts, everything, on the line – for him. Remus couldn't let them do it, he just couldn't.

So this year, he decided that the perfect Christmas present would be for him to not be a wolf anymore. And of course it never happened, and of course he had to transform on New Years Eve, leaving his friends to worry about him all night, and he didn't feel at all sad, just resigned to the fact, because, like his father had once said, wishing and hoping solved nothing.

---

James and Lily got married on Christmas Day, the year Remus turned 20. And watching them was both heartwarming and heart wrenching. He was so happy for them, and yet he wanted to be them. He wanted that.

Long after the ceremony was over, when Lily and James were mingling with guests, Sirius was passed out in the kitchen of their cottage and Peter was entertaining James' mother with tales of Marauder exploits, Remus stood in the snow outside the house. Music and rambunctious laughter echoed as someone attempted the electric slide, judging by the comments.

Glancing through the window, Remus could see Emmeline Vance talking to a girl he's never seen before, and he couldn't help but think she was beautiful. Remus had never been one to ogle girls, in fact he was quite the opposite, but he was a man, and she was gorgeous. Best of all, she had flowing brown locks, _and_she was holding a book in her hand, waving it about animatedly.

That Christmas, alone and shivering in the snow as everyone enjoyed the punch, unaware that Sirius had spiked it, Remus Lupin lamented the fact that he would never have the life that Lily and James were destined for, and wished that, just once, he could know the touch and the voice of his own brown haired, literature loving girl.

---

Eventually, he found someone whose voice and touch he could love. That Christmas, all he wanted was a stack of Muggle books to lose himself in when the memories of Sirius, James and Lily began to haunt him. Remus never received a single book. Instead, Remus Lupin earnt himself the best present of all. She wasn't brown haired, even if she was quite easily able to be, nor did she have a big interest in literature, but Nymphadora Tonks was nothing short of the best Christmas present Remus had ever had, and he'd been given a fair few.

**The End: **It's over. I'm incredibly proud of this fic, but also happy to say goodbye, because I never expected this to turn into something so big, and I want to move on to something better. Firstly, I have to thank all of my incredibly dedicated reviewers, especially Rose, Becky and Gaby (xRosePetalx, Crayon Lover & Gaby Black). Your support has meant so much to me. My favourite chapters would have to be Of Hufflepuffs and Scrooges, Release and Christmas Crackers, but I'd love to know your favourites, because everyone has a different opinion.

Much love,

Cuba xx


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